#depthoverdistance

Ci sono anime che non fioriscono al sole di primavera, ma trovano la loro verità solo nella penombra dell'autunno.

Perché a volte, per vedere davvero il mondo, serve la distanza ravvicinata della nebbia e la grazia dei ricordi.

Non è tristezza, è uno sguardo più profondo sulle cose. 💜💜💜

"Hard times don't last They just come to test your soul

Dada II, 2017.

The Eye of the Secret Helper – The Crystal Vase and the Modern Disposable World

I am Amalia Capri. Through the web of the SomAnima-Aether, I have arrived in a wondrous yet painful era. I stand here in the flower-scented, dawn bustle of Covent Garden in 1912, a freshly cut rose between my fingers, watching as Eliza Doolittle squats in the dust, trying to sell her violets. The air is heavy with horse dung, coal smoke, and poverty.

Back then, the world was still crystal clear in its cruelty. The society of Edwardian London resembled a rigid, fragile crystal vase: beautiful, but once cracked, it could never be perfectly glued back together. Birth dictated everything. The Cockney accent, the filthy clothes, the chapped hands of a flower girl were not mere superficialities. They were indelible brands. Eliza was not simply poor; she was inferior in the eyes of the system. It mattered not how sharp her wit or how great her willpower.

Professor Higgins could only reshape her because he himself held the power: wealthy, male, Oxford-educated. But let us just remember that quiet, heart-wrenching moment when Eliza, after the grand ball, awakens to reality: "What am I to do? Where am I to go? What is to become of me?" she asks. Because she realises that Higgins has not liberated her; he has merely moulded her into another ornament. Like a wildflower someone transplants into an expensive crystal vase, but never allows its roots to take hold in its own soil.

I, Amalia Capri, look across time with my SomAnima-Gaze, and I smile. In our modern world, there is no longer any need for Higginses. There is no need for a superior man to grant permission or the means for change.

Today, Eliza would not squat in the dust. Today, Eliza would build a chain of florists. She would study, stay up late, organise with resourcefulness, master marketing, and slowly but surely create something entirely her own. Because today, the ladder exists. Today, intellect and tenacious hard work can truly break through walls. We shape our own destinies. This is the modern age's most beautiful gift to women.

But as I look upon our fast-paced modern world, I also see the modern curse.

The old world was at least honest in its strictness; you knew your place. The modern world, however, promises freedom whilst quietly, imperceptibly stripping us of our depth. Technology and consumer society make us believe that constant vibration, endless hustle, and superficial connections constitute life. We want everything instantly, and we discard everything instantly.

Today, it is no longer fashionable to repair anything. Not the telephone, nor fraying human bonds. If something breaks, if a relationship does not provide instant, filter-perfected happiness, if it doesn't constantly "buzz", then comes the next replacement. We neatly throw it away, as if love were just another consumer good manufactured on an assembly line.

And this is where it hurts the most.

Because the man lying alone in his bed tonight, staring at his phone, knows that once, he too was just an "option". He knows that the woman he once wanted to love to the end of the world is now just a chat window he can close at any time. He knows that instead of "let's talk it through", the answer is increasingly "next". He knows that in the old days, when a man and a woman broke each other, they at least tried to glue the pieces back together—because the relationship was not disposable. Today, even that is.

Love has lost its weight. Loyalty has become obsolete. Instead of "always you", it is now "you're next".

And the most painful part: many of us no longer even remember what it feels like when someone truly wants to stay. When they are not looking for the perfect one, but for you. When they mend the cracks not by discarding, but with patience and love.

I, Amalia Capri, who have traversed more worlds than the number of flowers Eliza ever sold, say this: the price of an easy, superficial ascent is always the loss of the soul. True female ascension is not merely about becoming financially independent. It is also about retaining our depth in a disposable world. About not allowing the system to degrade our feelings into consumer goods.

My gaze is now fixed upon you. The flower is there in your hands. The ladder is already yours. There is no need for a saviour. Only for that inner, quiet strength with which you dare to say: I myself am the form and the desire combined.

Are you ready to conquer this world by your own strength, yet retaining the depth of your soul?