Cap. 1 The day after i died
I was getting worse and worse. Just the memory of their death makes me feel like I'm vomiting. I drowned in tears and deafening because of the screams of injustice. You imagine death in many ways, but you never imagine it for no reason.They died too young, too healthy, too beautiful and good for it, they didn't deserve it, they didn't have a reason.I don't have an explanation for what happened to my parents and I don't know if I'll ever have.
The canvas was my refuge and the colors were soothing. But now I have only one color. The one who expresses nothing and at the same time expresses everything, the one who surrounds my soul in these moments of hellish torment, the one that comes as a salvation for my faith and a knife stroke for unjustified justice, the black. I spent days, weeks, even months at my parents' house, making countless canvases that I used as a sponge, for my feelings. Finally, I saw myself in front of an exhibition of mine with these works, a kind of tribute to them but also a sign of triumph in the face of the depression in which i had fallen.
Some of the bestsellers were: the gate to hell, a window to the hell of hope, beyond after, present.
