Let me tell you what depression feels like
It's a black hole sucking your happiness dry
It is darkness where there shoud be light
It is the feeling of dread and wanting to die

Sadness for not knowing how to live
or how to behave
and who to believe
it's feeling unloved and unwanted whatever they say
it is madness surrounded by pain

It's staring at the void
and let it in your brain
Swirl in a storm of self hatred and shame
believe you are nothing
and nothing is gained

It's disappearing into yourself
and falling deep into the abyss

it's a broken record of 'you are dead anyway
so why stay?'

depression is hell in my brain.




I am sure I knew who I was

Such a long time ago

I was not just a moving body

I was body and soul

Me? Yeah, there’s a mess in my head

But isn’t it something everyone has?

Who am I today

And where do I want to go

Where do I need to be

If no one tells me so

Me? I see a light at the end of the darkness

Voices that tell me to run while others ask me to stay

What should I do to please everyone

And where should I stay

Me… This foreign feeling drifting away

A dark fortress on heavy rain tempting faith

Me… I just want to be ok…

How sad

How very sad

When two hearts meet

To then collapse

It’s heartbreaking

To stare at one’s soul

And see yourself inside

While never being able

To make your souls collide

How very sad

To brush another’s heart

When it is not the right time

When each is already taken

Yet you can’t deny

That in a different time

If that heart could be yours

You would embrace it and

Call it valentine


I’ve failed many people and on many fronts. I’m a soldier taken prisoner by my own mind and spoken words. How I wished I could release all the words repressed in my heart, at the tip of my tongue. They won’t come out no matter what. They are locked and afraid. What good are they anyway if they might hurt and maim. No, I cannot let them escape. We shall be together in our golden cage made of hopes and dreams that will never be. Or let the words stay in that dark and damp room in that corner of my mind where thoughts go to die. Let them stay there keeping me company and making me cry. 

Let them suffocate me while screaming to come out. They are full of bile anyway. I suppose someday I shall vomit them all because they’ve decayed. They will come out all ugly and deformed for prickling my stomach as a desperate fight for their freedom. 

Still I won’t let them come out. I’ll keep them all in, everywhere and all around. They will continue to punch me in the stomach, scratch my throat, scream inside my mind until I go mad. And who is to say I am not mad. 

The only words I will allow are the ones that feel the deepest. 

I am sorry for my poor existence. 

WOOLF WOOLF – The Story of the Dog Named Woolf


Woolf! Woolf!

There he came running, the dog who wanted to be a wolf.

He tried looking menacing, but overall he just looked cute and kind of funny.

His name was wolf and he wanted to be wild.

But at his owner’s whistle he became tame and mild.

Woolf! Woolf! He barked as he ran.

‘I will become a wolf!’

And then his owner sang, ‘Woolf, come here. Woolf, who’s a good boy?’

Woolf barked happily and came running, ‘Woolf! Woolf!’ He was a good boy.

But Woolf was also a wolf. Deep down. Very very deep down.

And who said a wolf could not be lovely, and cute and mild?

So Woolf ran happily and went for a walk with his owner.

‘Let’s go, pal,’ said the woman.

And Woolf learned that his owner was his pal, and she ran and barked and rolled on the ground.

They were human and dog with a wolf spirit.

So they smiled at each other, and played, and ran free in the park.

Woolf! Woolf!

It was a lovely day to be a dog named Woolf.


Illustration and story by Alice Fagiolo

The older, the wiser (?)

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I am 35 years old today. Looking back – and forward – I can summary my life in one word: books. I’ve spent most of it engrossed in books, books and more books, and I’ll probably spent the rest of it in them. A world of my own, as Alice in Wonderland once was. Is it the curse of the name? I do not know.

I clearly remember wanting to be a writer from the age of 7 or 8, when I filled a whole notebook I had with poems. Unfortunately, I do not know where said – or sad (?) – notebook is… It is probably hidden in some old box gathering dust and mold. And I cannot help comparing it to my dreams of becoming a writer… I had dreams and songs to sing, that unfortunately were postponed and thrown aside by many reasons, mostly by my own troubled mind as I grew up. They’ve never been forgotten, though. They’ve always remained here.

2015 has been the year I’ve decided to open that moldy box of dreams and confront many of my fears. Thus this blog was born. A means to a winding road. As I figure out my mind and troubles, a book is slowly being written. I have started my Imaginary Project precisely to help me unleash my imagination, and so far it has been working. It is a romance between King Arthur and Lancelot. I have no idea if it will ever be read or liked. All I know is I am committed to seeing it through the end.

I do not know where my life will lead me, or the paths I will find myself walking on. I do know I want to make this happen for me.

Today I have finished the landscape planning of my imaginary world, and I am proud of my crappy doodles. Because if there is something I have learnt in these 35 years is that I need to start being more proud of myself and my accomplishments even if they are far and few. Learning to live with yourself and loving yourself, that is what life has been all about. And it does say something that I have finished my landscape today, that at least I haven’t given up yet.

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