Time to reset my brain.

I experienced love for the first time and it went all wrong. It's all my fault.
Recently I did a mistake and now this mistake is creating an aftershock of confusion, anger and numbness. I can't focus, I can't train properly and I'm risking my job. 

I am sorry if I made you suffer.

It's time for me to roll back to who I was months ago. An athlete. Nothing else. I do not deserve love. 

My destiny has already been written: training myself and athletes until I die. 

And now...time to train even if I'm exhausted. Per me.

Good night stupid world of motherfuckers. 

 

 

Paz!

"Perché il freddo, quello vero, sa essere qui: in fondo al mio cuore di sbarbo".

Massimo Zanardi 

Tuo Per Sempre 🥹

I still think about what I did, and I feel like an absolute idiot. 

Not because I am evil, not because my intentions were bad but because I was blind and insecure in ways that now seem so obvious to me. There are moments when I replay everything in my mind and wonder how someone who loves you as much as I do could have been so foolish.

And then I think about you.

I think about your forgiveness.

I think about your patience.

I think about the fact that after everything, you still chose me.

You still love me.

You still look at me with those beautiful eyes and see something worth keeping and every single time that realization hits me, I feel overwhelmed by how lucky I am.

Because finding true love is basically impossible.

Finding a woman as beautiful as you is impossible.

Finding a soul as kind, gentle, intelligent, passionate, and forgiving as yours is impossible.

Yet somehow, against all probabilities, you are here piccolina mia.

Sometimes I look at your photos and videos and I genuinely struggle to understand how a woman like you exists. You look like something that escaped from a dream, from a painting, from a story written by a poet who had never seen imperfection.

What makes me love you beyond any rationality is...

Your heart.

The way you love.

The way you forgive.

The way you make me want to become a better man.

My beloved piccolina...

I want to wake up next to you.

I want to see your face every morning for the rest of my life.

I want to stand near you, taking your hands in mine, and promising before the world and before eternity that I will love you until my last breath.

I want to call you my wife.

I want a home filled with laughter, little footsteps running through the hallway, and children who have your divine smile and divine eyes.

I want thousands of ordinary moments that would become extraordinary simply because they are shared with you.

And when I imagine eternity, I do not imagine it as a place.

I imagine it as being beside you.

Embracing you. Kissing you. Making love with you.

Resting my forehead against yours.

You are my greatest blessing.

My safest place.

My inspiration.

And if I could choose only one thing to keep from this entire universe, I would choose you.

Every single time.

Forever 🥹🥹🥹💕💓🫂

Ti amo e ti amerò per sempre mia sirenetta 🥹 

The Weight I Can Carry

People often assume that strength is a simple thing.

They see the years of gymnastics, calisthenics, martial arts, the calloused hands, the discipline, the injuries endured in silence. They see a man who can lift his own body as if gravity were merely a suggestion. They see a man who has spent a lifetime teaching himself not to surrender.

And perhaps they are right.

I am strong. Extremely strong. 

Yet there is a strange irony hidden inside strength: the strongest battles are often fought where nobody can see them. Many years ago, I stood before a crossroads. One path led toward the Olympics. It was a road paved with certainty, sacrifice, and the possibility of becoming everything the world expects a gifted athlete to become.

The other path was uncertainty itself.

Stories.

Cinema.

Art.

The strange worlds that lived inside my imagination.

I chose the second path.

Even now, there are nights when I wonder whether I made the wrong choice. Nights when I look at my life and feel the cold shadow of failure standing quietly behind me.

I wonder what I could have been.

I wonder what I should have been.

I wonder if somewhere there exists another version of me wearing medals instead of carrying unfinished dreams in a broken industry.

And if I am honest, there is one fear greater than all the others.

The fear that the woman I love (my soulmate Paloma) might look at me one day and see not the man I tried to become, but the man who failed to become something else.

It is a fear I rarely speak aloud.

Because strength teaches you to hide your wounds but love teaches you to reveal them.

The truth is that when I look at her, I do not see the world through the eyes of an athlete, an artist, or a man measuring his worth against old ambitions but I simply see home. I see the person whose happiness matters more to me than my own.

And that realization changes everything.

Because there are moments when she is sad, anxious, overwhelmed, or hurting, and something inside me reacts with a force stronger than any instinct I have ever known.

I have endured pain.

I have endured exhaustion.

I have endured injuries that would make most people quit.

Yet feeling sadness in herself is somehow harder than all of those things combined.

It feels as though the air itself becomes heavier.

As though breathing requires effort.

As though the entirety of my own heart has forgotten how to beat properly until she smiles again.

Perhaps that is what love truly is.

Not fireworks.

Not grand gestures.

Not poetry.

But the strange and terrifying realization that another person's joy has become inseparable from your own.

People speak often about what they would die for.

I think the more meaningful question is what they would live for.

And my answer is simple.

I will live for her.

I will fight for her.

I will cross every ocean, climb every mountain, and walk through every darkness I have ever imagined if it meant keeping her safe.

And if life ever demanded a greater price, I would pay it without hesitation.

Not because I am fearless.

But because some things become more important than fear.

She is one of those things.

Perhaps I never became the Olympian I might have been.

Perhaps some dreams were abandoned along the way.

Perhaps some versions of myself were left behind on roads I did not take.

But when I look at her, I realize something extraordinary.

The greatest achievement of my life was never a medal, a title, a film, or a feat of strength.

It was finding someone whose existence makes me want to become a better man every single day.

And if history remembers me as nothing at all, if every accomplishment fades into dust and every ambition is eventually forgotten, there is one thing I hope remains true:

That she knew, beyond every doubt, that she was loved.

Completely.

Fiercely.

Endlessly.

With every ounce of strength in my body and every fragile piece of my soul.

And if there is any greatness in me at all, it is because loving her to infinity taught me what greatness actually means.

Piccolina mia...ti amo in un modo che spiegare a parole sarebbe impossibile.

The Redeemer Born of Storm

Behold, when the sky was torn with fire,

and the vault of heaven roared as a furnace of iron,

there descended from the cauldron of the upper air
a Form most dreadful to behold,
whose very presence did shatter the firmament,
and whose coming was heralded not by trumpet,
but by the shriek of the Earth herself,
riven at last by her own iniquity.

He came not as man, nor beast, nor angel,
but as Force incarnate
a colossus clad in flame and tempest,
whose breath melted stone,
and whose eyes were twin crucibles
in which all corruption did recoil.

The clouds did boil as blood beneath His chariot;
the thunder bent to His command
and spake His fury in tongues forgotten by time.
From His limbs did pour smoke and vengeance,
and His voice split mountains asunder.
Each stride shattered the crust of nations;
cities crumbled as ash beneath His heel.

He came not for justice, nor judgment
but for the utter ruin of evil,
and the extirpation of all that crawleth
in shadow and deceit.
His blade was not forged but born
a thing of pure will,
cutting not flesh alone,
but the essence of sin where it did coil and nest.

Where tyrants hid, the skies opened.
Where liars prayed, the ground split.
The temples of greed, the towers of pride,
were cast down into dust finer than breath.
He did not parley,
nor did He offer stay of doom;
for His mercy is swiftness,
and His love is fire.

Men fell to their knees in awe,
not to beg, but to witness.
For what tongue could petition
such a Power as needeth no ear?
The oceans rose in exultation,
the forests bowed with leaves aflame,
and the stars themselves halted in their courses
to behold the purification of the sphere.

Then, His work complete,
when no foulness remained to tremble beneath the sun,
He lifted His gaze skyward
and the heavens, now clean, parted like linen.
Through the seam of reality He vanished,
leaving naught but scorched truth in His wake,
and silence more holy than the choir of saints.

None know His name,
for it is unutterable.
None know His origin,
for it is beyond the cradle of the cosmos.

The Hour of Unbecoming

It began not with trumpet nor trembling of earth,

but with a stillness so profound
that thought itself seemed swallowed in in
a stillness wherein the sky paused mid turn,
and the breath of the cosmos drew back
as if reluctant to exhale again.

I stood alone upon the strand of no known shore,
a place that defied the cartographer’s ink,
whose sands did not sink nor shift beneath the foot,
but held, as though conscious of the witness they bore.
No tide lapped, no gull cried,
only the infinite hush of that final interval,
pregnant with the weight of what approached.

Then, above me, the firmament did fracture.
A seam, imperceptible at first,
opened across the celestial vault
and bled forth light of such unnatural cast
that it blinded not the eyes,
but the memory of what colour once was.
The heavens churned in spectral delirium,
vermillion, void blue, hues that bore no name,
spilling and folding into themselves
like the petals of some eldritch bloom.

And lo, the stars began to stir,
those anchors of the ancient night
shivered loose from their ordained orbits,
and wandered, pulsing with unfamiliar motion,
as if obeying a design long buried beneath the skin of time.
No longer symbols to guide the lost,
they now moved with will,
their very procession an indictment
of all the order we had ever presumed.

Then did the Sound come,
a blast not born of wind or fire,
but of unreason unloosed
a concussive convulsion of Being itself.
It tore through the firmament and the mind alike,
a cry from the throat of Reality
as it was rent apart by its successor.

The horizon, that quiet custodian of distance,
rolled inward like a scroll ignited,
its line breaking into curves
monstrous arcs of land and sky
twisting as water caught in a descending spiral.
Continents rose and shattered like brittle glass,
skies plunged like stone,
and the world we once called Earth
was folded inward toward a single point,
drawn into some vast, unseen aperture
at the center of all unraveling.

Around me, the multitude was unmoored.
Some clawed at the sand,
others fled with weeping mouths and blind eyes,
and some merely fell still,
having seen the face of that which replaceth form.
There was no salvation,
for none had ever been promised only delay.

And I, untouched amid the wailing and the dust,
beheld it all with a stillness not my own.
Not wonder, nor terror but recognition.
For this, too, I had dreamed.
Not in metaphor nor veiled prophecy,
but in perfect shape and sequence.

The end had always waited beneath the skin of the real,
like fire beneath painted glass.
And now, at last,
the veil was lifted.
And the Dream beyond the world
stepped forward to take its throne.

Eight Years Later: Social Media Hell, Artistic Bankruptcy, and Me

Well, hello again, blogosphere. It’s been eight years since I last posted anything here. Eight years of relative silence while the world decided to devolve further into an entertainment-induced stupor. If you’ve missed me (you haven’t, but let’s pretend), I’ve been busy grinding my teeth into insane training while watching the nonsense unfold in what’s left of the entertainment industry.

Let me set the stage: the modern artist is no longer determined by talent, grit, or even a shred of originality. No, today, all you need is a perfectly curated Instagram grid, a steady supply of meaningless captions, and the ability to farm likes like an over-caffeinated social media bot. Want to get ahead? Forget about skill or vision; just master the art of shallow self-promotion. We’re rewarding vanity metrics, not creative substance. And frankly, I’m fucking mad about it.

I dream of a world where social media collapses under its own bloated irrelevance. Imagine that. Picture humans forced to engage their intellect again...reading books, having conversations that last longer than a tweet, maybe even rediscovering what it means to think critically. But no, instead, we’ve got influencers dictating the culture while algorithms determine what qualifies as "art." What a time to be alive.

In the midst of this circus, I’ve decided to channel my rage constructively or as constructively as one can when fueled by existential despair. I’m pouring my energy into two things: the game I’m developing (more on that later, maybe), and brutale hardcore physical training. Nothing takes the edge off a dystopian world quite like deadlifting your bodyweight and one-inch punching concrete walls until your knuckles scream for help. It’s primal, it’s exhausting, and it’s my only tether to sanity right now.

Oh, and yes, I did sneak in a small vacation with my best friend recently. A rare moment of levity in an otherwise rage-fueled existence. Don’t worry; I wasn’t on a beach sipping overpriced cocktails. That's for weak minds. It was a real vacation, the kind where you reconnect with nature and pretend the digital apocalypse isn’t happening in the background.

So, to summarize: yes, I’m angry. No, I don’t think the entertainment industry will save itself. And yes, I’m going to keep building my own little corner of meaning while the world continues to implode in a storm of hashtags and hollow trends. Stay tuned or don’t. At this point I don't really give a fuck.