Avus Ars, his musical cure is called Benzodiazepine: the video

I’m Alessio, aka Avus Ars:
Curious, multifaceted and free person.
Projected towards a continuous search for emotions, the real ones, not that spasmodic search for emoticons on the mobile phone.
I love love, life and myself.
I love art as hope and the only way of salvation from the aforementioned.
Avus, from the Latin, Grandfather.
Ars, from the Latin, Art.
Avus Ars, in an extreme synthesis, is this.

Benzodiazepine, my latest single, was born on the morning of May 29, 2021.
Day of my birthday.
I get out of bed still a little sleepy, at about 12 and, like most mornings, I go to the bathroom to shave.
I didn’t sleep a wink last night.
I fidget, shake my head not to think, but I can’t.
And I get agitated.
Tramontana, storm that sweeps away the clouds and shakes the branches of that old young tree and blows away the fragile leaves born in late spring.
Cold. Frosty. It is almost winter.
A wind strong and fast enough to hear its powerful, majestic whistle.

With my hands I make room for the eyes, still not completely open, gently and nervously moving my hair.
In front of the mirror.
And here a little voice that enjoys playing with the real me whispers: who are you?

One of the questions that haunt our unconscious goes something like this:
“Will I be loved?”
One of the deepest fears is this.
The fear of not being chosen (or perhaps I should say seen, understood), the fear of not being loved, the fear of not being worth enough.

But what does it mean to love? And love each other?
What are you willing to do?

All. Which is actually nothing.

Taking care of yourself until you are totally destroyed, going through phases of research / construction of a vain identity.
Nothing belongs to us because we don’t know each other well enough.

The tears seem like flakes of ice that can’t get out of their sockets and anger resembles a flame suffocated by wet wood logs, grinning smiles so as not to let out screams of despair and swear words and curses.

And, on the other hand, woe to rejoice too much. Happiness breeds widespread distrust. It is almost suspicious, it looks like a clue that, added to the others, can lead you to prison.

Fly low – the world whispers.

Hey You, who are you?

On the notes of an arpeggiated piano and various synthesizers that know a little psychedelic (just like love) a voice is born in search of salvation.
From who?
From you, from me, from the world.

A deep kick kicks those insecurities and suffering that grip our souls, in our most hidden unconscious.

The word alone causes anxiety, fear. That fear with a capital P, but also the A, the U and so on.

But not suffering is the same as playing blind fly on the highway.
Not suffering is the same as not living.

Do you really want to die before you have lived?

What are you afraid of?
I of everything. And now for nothing.

A violin section creates intimacy, the one that should be there whenever you look in the mirror.
You really look at it.
Which never happens.

Love and suffering are two emotions that cannot travel in a straight line. Treble, bass, pumping, distortion, sint.
Roxy Music, Afterhours.
That’s what love and suffering are.