Sentire di non appartenere a un mondo arido e ostile contaminato dall'impossibilità di amare, e nonostante questo continuare a sognare di riprendere il volo, come una rondine ferita che dispiega nuovamente le ali.
Arianna Amaducci often conducts us in a labyrinth of conflicting emotions along the sour runs of the loneliness and the pain, but she knows how to also give us the quiver of the tenderness and the passion, crystallizing them inside the amber drops of the memoirs which are never estinguished. Hers is an incessant internal nomadism: to pursue the happiness and to graze it without never reaching it, as a dragonfly gone crazy that it flies away from the fingers. To cling to the life with the teeth, also when a dreadful mental void fills entirely itself of the desire to kill herself, and to tame the invisible beast which tries to devour you fron the inside. And to look for the roots of the past of a deep uneasiness in the wound ever healed of the premature death of her father, in the daily dripping of humiliations inflicted to a hypersensitive child by an oppressive mother, in the innocence profaned by lascivious caresses sprung by the saturated faint light of incense in a confessional...
To feel not belong to an arid and hostile world contaminated by the impossibility to love, and despite this to keep on dreaming to take back the flight as a wounded swallow which again unfolds the wings.