STORY OF LORENZO AND A CHILD

I am never ready for departures, detachments and farewells.
What scares me most of the time that passes is losing the people who are close to me and whom I love.

Today I said goodbye to Lorenzo.
It is the last day he will come to the facility where he is being followed as the family, for work reasons, has communicated to the team his definitive transfer to Genoa.

"Lorenzo, today we say goodbye, you know ..."

"I have to study geography, tomorrow they ask me ..."

"Okay, I'll help you."

He takes the geographical map of Italy and shows me our region.

“This is where we are now. Do you know where I'm going this weekend? "

"Here ... look a bit, there is also the sea." I point to Genoa on the map.

"You know I don't care about the sea ... I don't even want to go!" He gets up abruptly from his chair.

"See you no more!"

He keeps looking at the map and shows me with his fingers how little distance there is between the two cities.

"You have to say hello to me because we don't see each other anymore, so today I want to give you the key to all the doors, when you use it we could meet ..."

I can hardly hold back the tears.
I really wish I could tell this little boy that magic exists and we can use it to meet whenever we want, but the sad truth is that sadly I'm not the child he wants me to be. He does not know, of all the times that, in his company, he made me return a carefree and smiling child and all the good that he gave me.
Today I can no longer be that child and he must understand that this is a greeting, a goodbye for both of us.

“Lorenzo, the key that opens all the doors and takes you wherever you want, unfortunately it doesn't work with the grown-ups. But we can write letters, you will tell me anything you want. You can call me on the phone and with your mom we will find a way to meet again. "

"You do not love me anymore! Because?"

"I love you so much, but today, we have to say goodbye ..."

Lorenzo runs to hug me and, at this point, I cry ...

“You're really a little girl, grown-ups don't cry! I'll give you the key anyway, maybe then it works… ”A smile escapes me through tears.

This time it is Lorenzo who is crying in my arms.
He understood that we are saying goodbye ...

Now, I need someone who also makes the little girl in me understand, why people always go away and why it always hurts so much ...

STORY OF AN EMPTY CART

I was walking with my father, when suddenly he stopped at a bend and after a short silence I wonder: "Besides the song of the sparrows, do you hear anything else?" I pricked my ears and after a few seconds I replied: "The noise of a cart". “Right - he told me. And an empty cart ". I asked him: "How do you know it's an empty cart if you haven't seen it yet?" He replied: "It's easy to understand when a cart is empty, since the more empty it is, the more noise it makes". I became an adult and even today when I see a person who talks too much, interrupts the conversation of others, is intrusive, boasts of the talents he thinks he has, is bossy and thinks he can do without others, I have the impression of listening to the voice of my father who says: "The more the cart is empty, the more it makes noise"

STORY OF A CUP OF TEA

Smoke comes out of the tea next to me. I follow its evolutions in the air, completely random and at the same causal, dictated only by the micro-movements of the atmosphere around the cup. Most of the things that happen to us behave exactly the same way: they seem to be dictated exclusively by chance while in reality they follow very specific rules, they are conditioned by events, choices and reasonings to which we do not pay attention, because most of the time we are not even aware that we are breathing, let alone what we do. Rational thinking is the greatest deception of the human being because it makes us believe that we are masters of ourselves but it is not so and in fact this same reasoning is not primarily the result of my thought, and it is not even rational but, on the contrary, dictated by emotions that lie beneath layers and layers of logical constructs aimed at making sense of the fact that I am writing yet another post sentimental here. Here you see, the last sentence is the world beyond the veil, the deceit discovered, the emotion that crushes and annihilates reasoning.

And so I was not aware of anything, or more precisely, I was aware of little, because I have always done a bit of self-analysis but as always I underestimated the control I have over myself, little, especially when it comes to feelings . And it makes me angry to know that the reason was never mine, that I missed something right once, that I didn't know anything about how it would go, rather that I said to myself that it would go wrong to fool myself into being in control while imagining something that wasn't going to happen. existed. I was aware that I was deluding myself and I was deluding myself all the same, because in fact, I lack control.

And even right now I'm missing it. This post did like smoke from my cup, deceptively random evolutions. Now the tea has cooled down, no more smoke, that's it.

STORY OF AN ANKLE

I saw her get on the subway and pretended nothing happened. I looked at it out of the corner of my eye but there was a person among us, so I only saw the low-heeled black boot. I thought the woman attached to that ankle changed my life and I didn't ask her. Of course, putting all the responsibility on her would be childish and wrong, but in fact she was there, she did, she said, she decided for herself but also for me. The woman attached to that ankle took my father away, enlarged my family and then shrinks it to her liking, made me cry silently, secretly, I hated her every now and then and I don't think I love her despite these 10 years. Sometimes I've told myself that if it disappeared out of the blue I wouldn't even notice, and that's probably true. The woman attached to that ankle is a black spot in my life, just like the color of her coat.

STORY OF AN INTERLUDE

What survives the time?
There is always something that is saved from the storm of pain that has permeated the air and walls, which acquires its own serenity. Something that saves you from oblivion. A piece of home, of intimacy. A peak reached to be contemplated from another angle. A narrow space of time that saw us helmsmen ready to orient the ship's keel without being satisfied with making it float. A tune with long notes to hum in moments of nostalgia. The light of a window lit in the evening that cloaks the indistinct space and continues to reassure us, reminding us of the place that saw us happy. A non-place of light-heartedness that expands in the imaginative waves of our mind and survives time.
A love does not enter and exit the soul like a puff of smoke. A story does not lose its reason for being. It relives in the solidity of the small details embedded in the visual composition of memories. In all that is permanently fixed somewhere within us. In the colors of a snapshot recorded by the eyes that we occasionally try to refocus. In the dense and throbbing juice of the sensations that survive forced removals, they awaken any day and appear inexplicably strengthened. In the ink drawings full of erasures and smudges of our mistakes. In the irrational eruption into the monotonous flow of the days of a thought or an image that immediately brings us back and makes us wince. In the dazzling manifestation of the dotted figure of someone we have loved who, at times, we superimpose on a stranger, believing we recognize him.
- What remains then? - I wondered several times, continuously.
The vibration remains to witness what we have experienced on our skin, to touch the deepest chords unexpectedly. The body does not forget. There remains the shadow of a love that never disappears completely.
Inside us, the echo hovers. So inside me, your memory remains not plundered by the continuous current of days. Relive intact in the invisible real of my mind. In the sharp contrasts of still images that do not fade with time. In the chaotic alternation of the clips of our dialogues. In the suspensions of the unspoken. In the clear net of words that have pierced the barriers of our rigid closures. In the muffled silences. In the prolonged apnea of ​​a total immersion in the high waves of emotions. In the grafting of an encounter whose roots cannot be eradicated by the advance of existence. In the spontaneity of gestures hidden from the gaze of strangers. In the verses intertwined in the musical score of our love. In the interlude between the beginning and the end of a story, the authenticity of a love remains. The time of that love within us.

THE RETURN TRIP

After about an hour, I pick up the phone and look for a CD for the return trip. I am interrupted by a cyclist passing close to me. He is standing on the pedals, he looks like a spastic mechanic intent on working with the engine to increase its displacement. His ass comes out of his shorts because they are ripped. What was the saying? "Better a healthy ass in broken pants, than vice versa". I do not remember.

I decide to go back. "It's downhill now," I think. And while my legs are stiff with fatigue, I see in front of me a branch dangling from a wall. I take it in my hand to move it, step under it and stop a little further on to look at the view. The air is clean, I'm surrounded by greenery. But my brain only suggests the image of a toilet. I smell the scent of flowers, of vegetation, of perfumed stuff and that olfactory mix seems to me one of those sprays that you spray after you take a shit, one of those things that look like a cross between an apology press conference called by the boss and a prodigy of chemistry.

And in short, I'm tired, so I head briskly home. As soon as I breathe a sigh of relief, I'm back where I've been safe for the past two months. I smell the smells I know, the pheromones of my records, my books, my stuff. Just before I go to take a shower, the doorbell rings. I scream that I'm going. It is the delivery of the shopping.

In front of me is a sweaty guy. He pants, coughs, puts down bags, baskets of water. Sweat drops everywhere. I am looking for the mask but I no longer have it. He hands me the machine to pay with the ATM. He runs a hand over his sweat-rotted forehead, then touches his ass and blows. "Uff, how hot!" he says snorting. I smile unconvinced. And as he tears up the receipt to hand it to me, I think the world is everywhere.

STORY OF UNDERWATER

At the bottom of the sea the sun never sets. The sun, which seems to go out in the waves, has no place in the ocean depths. LAYA swam fearlessly among the corals and sponges of the seabed, of a dense, blackish blue; a viscous darkness for human eyes, but not for her, who possessed it, controlled it. It wasn't like that on dry land where darkness possessed her, controlled her. It infiltrated her body more and more every day: a tarry poison that penetrated her eyes, nose, mouth and filled her head, polluting her ideas; then he went down to force her breath, to numb her limbs. Although LAYA felt that something was wrong, that it wasn't right, that she had to rebel, she never did. The darkness comforted her, cradled her, clutching her organs, her muscles, her bones that she could no longer move. And she didn't want to move. When the darkness was thicker, his heart, so impregnated, slowed down so much, stuck, that LAYA watched him concentrated, wondering how faintly he could beat before stopping.

In his world it was not like that. In his world, even darkness was his subject.

He swam to the surface; hidden among the rocks she looked at the city where she had no place she could call her own, where all affection was a stranger. He watched the sunset color the horizon pink and lilac. He watched the sea sparkle with gold and wondered what could be so precious there, in the dry, for which it was worth facing so many humiliations, so many failures, so many losses. He watched his tail flicker under the surface of the water which gradually became an increasingly intense crimson: the princess, the symbol of a proud people, the leader of a valiant army, swam in those red, violent waters. There she was not placid, meek or compliant, there she was not herself, there she was free from herself.

She plunged back into the inflamed waters, swimming energetically towards the bottom, where she was alive and light and strong, where she didn't need or want to hide. He spotted a scorpionfish camouflaged among the rocks: he pounced on it and scrubbed it unceremoniously with his sharp teeth. The flesh tearing deliciously, the brittle bone shattering under her jaws gave her a thrill of satisfaction. She felt no pity for that fish, as she was sure no one felt for her.

THE SILENT ROOM STORY

What I remember most from that day is that the walls of the building were cold and white.

It was as if someone had recently cleaned them with bleach and now the smell permeated everything. At first I thought it was a dream, since certainly everything that happened was far from the concepts of reality and rationality.

The first thing I remember is waking up and touching my forehead.

It was cold. Bizarre, given the heat that reigned in the room. I can almost see myself now as I take off my jacket and place it on the floor, gazing in surprise at the four walls I was within. What I saw immediately was the silver door handle. It was inviting, yet something made me hesitate when I caressed the idea of ​​walking towards it. So I turned around and discovered a slightly open window behind me: I could have easily passed through it and slipped under it, since a garbage can was ready to sweeten my descent.

There was no sign of life or movement in the room. It was still and silent. It could only be a dream.

I went to the handle and lowered it, finding the metal as hot as the temperature that prevailed in the room. The door opened and I found myself in a long corridor, also white. On the ceiling some lights flickered in pain, casting a heavy atmosphere over the entire tunnel.

And there was silence, and nothing but silence.

Slipping between those immaculate walls I perceived everything as confused and unreal.

I was constantly passing in front of other doors, but none of them I was able to open. Some of the handles dropped, yes, but only up to a point. None of the mechanisms ever clicked completely. Behind some of them I sometimes perceived sounds whose nature was not entirely clear to me, but every time my voice rang out to try to establish contact, nothing returned to answer me. I felt the palms of my hands sweaty from the grip of nervousness, and every sound I made ended up breaking irremediably before the end of a sentence. I was starting to feel like in one of those nightmares where you find yourself alone somewhere and although there is no apparent reason to be afraid or threatened you can't help but walk with your heart pounding and your skin goose.

Door, after garden, after door.

Each immaculate rectangle followed one another without an apparent end.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I was alone and wandered lost in those corridors.

With waves of panic becoming harder and harder to ignore, I began to wonder if I would really be able to return to that room with the window open. I tried to turn around a couple of times and I'm more than sure I paid close attention to which direction I was taking (or at least I think) but it seemed there was no way to find it. Yet, there was always a part of me that insisted that there was no reason for me to worry in that way, that it was more than evident that everything I was experiencing was not real. From one moment to the next I would have become fully aware of it and then I would have woken up soaking wet to find myself in my room, in my dormitory. I would have heard my roommate intent on sipping one of those disturbing films of his ... or I would have found him already snoring loudly in the bed next to mine, and then there would have been no way for me to go back to sleep.

I repeated all these things to myself over and over again - and in a small way they managed to give me courage - but when I found myself at the top of a flight of stairs and breathing suddenly became more difficult that mere comfort was no longer able to impose itself on that restlessness visceral.
The lower floor was immersed in darkness.

Perhaps I had arrived at the basement, perhaps in that part of the building there was no electricity. Was it really the case that I tried to find a rational solution? It was just a dream, after all.

I walked slowly down the steps, but once I got to the landing, once I was ready to take the last flight, I was forced to stop again.

A sound of footsteps came just below me as I walked up the steps to the lower floor.

Rationality fell silent and instinct took over. Dream or reality, I turned and retraced the road until I came up again in the silent corridor, desperately trying to put as much distance as possible between me and that one sound.

The footsteps continued their advance behind me, and always in my direction.

No matter how fast I moved, the noise held my head and the stride matched mine. When I was forced to stop to catch my breath, the mysterious pace slowed in turn and returned to pace, but never stopped ringing.

In the end, overcome by terror and anguish, I stopped my flight to try to grab one of the metal handles again: I shook the door and tried to trigger the mechanism with firm blows, but it didn't help.

"Hey there..."
A voice rose suddenly from behind the door.
"Hey! Will you hear me? Can you hold the porthole?" I pleaded without ever ceasing to try and, indeed, you are encouraged by that sudden contact. I got no other answer.
The footsteps behind me had come close.
Too close.
I started running again.
Whenever I was sure I had put enough distance between me and those footsteps again I tried whatever handle I could grab. At each attempt I was greeted by that apparently innocent and familiar nod.

"Hey there..."

Something was wrong.
Oh, that was what I said was wrong with that fucking place!
If I'm ready with that futile attempt of mine and given it some of my only goal, I'll only return the verse in which mine was awakened. Now even without my approaching I could hear the whispers originating from behind the doors.

"Hey there..."
"Hey there..."

And I pass.
The footsteps never left me.

On the other hand, they had come closer and closer, as if they were aware of the goal I had set for myself. And yet, somehow, that sound still frightened me less than those whispers behind those immaculate doors. Behind each of them had to be an individual, an individual that my footsteps certainly alerted to my presence.
So why did each of them just greet me in the same way, as if to consolidate my presence in that surreal place?
Why would none of them open the door for me?
How could they not catch the terror in my voice, the plea, the desperation that transpired?
I continued my run ignoring their every greeting.
Each of them had a different voice.
There was a moment when I distinctly heard the creaking of a door that opened shortly after I passed in front of it, but I never turned around or slowed my pace. Maybe I already knew within me that it would do no good, or maybe a part of me instinctively felt something that continued to fuel the flame of my survival instinct.

In front of me the contours of a wide open door were finally outlined, just as my pace was beginning to slow down and the possibilities of escape were beginning to fade from the field of possibilities. It had to be the door I first came out of!

I entered without hesitation and, slamming the door behind me, I locked the lock.

The voices in the corridor could somehow still reach me, teasing me with their one greeting repeated over and over again.
"Hey there..."
"Hey there..."
"Hey there"
This time I didn't think about it too long: I reopened the window and walked through it, sliding myself under. Once my feet were on the asphalt, I ran out of the alley and poured into the nearest street.
The street was deserted and the sky was dark.
I started walking.

For a while, I didn't meet anyone, except for a couple who whispered thickly. Another couple of blocks and my cell phone rang. It was my roommate's number.
"Hey man, since you're still out could you get me a couple of things?"

I didn't answer. I hung up and continued my wandering.


There had to be something around there, something so abnormal and surreal that it gave me proof that it was just a dream! Something so absurd and irrational that it would have definitely convinced me, allowing me to wake up ...
The phone began to shake and rang again:
“Hey, don't hang up on my face, it's not nice. Come on, I'm studying and I need a couple of energy drinks to keep me awake! I don't have time to go and buy them ... and I always do you this kind of favors when you ask me! "
"Danny?"
"What's wrong with you? Will you get me a couple of drinks or not? "
The voice sounded like his ... was it really possible?
"All right, all right. The blue ones, right? "
Actually Danny hates the blue ones. And I was so sure that the one at the other end of the line would have nothing to complain about. Who would have consented, not realizing anything ...
Instead there was a pause and Danny sounded irritated:
“No, you know I don't drink the blue ones. Just get me a Punched and a Juiced. You can find them at that corner shop, a couple of blocks from here. "
"Ok"
Only when I hung up did I realize, looking around, that I still had no idea where exactly I was. To tell the truth, I still wasn't sure if I was really in a ... real place.
I decided to do another test and dialed my girlfriend's number, who answered almost immediately. I had a short conversation with her where she told me something about one of her friends who recently broke up with a guy. I hung up more confused than before.
If I was really ... does that mean that building ...?

Now I can't explain what prompted me to do it. I only remember a very unpleasant sensation that tightened my stomach as I somehow tried to retrace my steps, trying to understand from which direction I had come and, above all, to find the building from which I had fled.
And, believe it or not, I walked for hours along those practically deserted streets, but I never found him. Perhaps the panic and terror had prevented me from mentally recording some key details that would allow me to distinguish it. I even went so far as to consider the possibility that I had been somehow drugged, and that what I had experienced were nothing more than the side effects of some substance.

Finally, exhausted and defeated, I let rationality prevail again: I called a taxi and let myself be dropped off in front of the shop where I bought the energy drinks for Danny, adding one for me too. Who knows, perhaps with the excuse of taking a break and having a drink together I would have had an opportunity to nonchalantly explain to my roommate what kind of experience I had had and why I had sounded so dazed on the phone when he contacted me ...
When I finally returned to the door of our dormitory I had come to the conclusion that we might as well let go of everything. I didn't have an explanation, of course, but it seemed that there was no way to answer my questions, at least for now. What mattered was that I was able to get h"Hey there..."

For the next three weeks, at the strangest times, I always got the same call.
Sometimes it happened when I was waiting for a call from a friend, or when I just picked up my cell phone. Each time I heard nothing but that one word, again and again.
I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that day, or the terror and anguish that that innocent greeting still conveys to me today.
I had an open window in front of me. I could have left right away.
Instead, I thought it was just a dream, so I started wandering around the entire building. Convinced that nothing was real, that nothing could really harm me.
I will never forgive myself for not simply escaping, made stupidly bold by the mistaken certainty of actually being under the covers, safe from everything ...ome, and that I wasn't going to be alone.

A call told me that Danny must have gotten impatient from waiting. I answered ready to apologize.


STORY OF TWO MIRRORS

Once upon a time there was an old sage sitting on the edge of an oasis at the entrance to a city in the Middle East.
A young man came up and asked him:
“I've never come this way. What are the inhabitants of this city like? "
The man replied in turn with a question:
"What were the inhabitants of the city you came from?"
“Selfish and bad. This is why I was happy to leave there ”.
“So are the inhabitants of this city!”, Replied the old sage.
Soon after, another young man approached the man and asked him the same question:
“I just arrived in this country. What are the inhabitants of this city like? "
The man replied again with the same question:
"What were the inhabitants of the city you come from?".
“They were good, generous, hospitable, honest”.
“Even the inhabitants of this city are like that!”, Replied the old sage.
A merchant who had brought his camels to water had overheard the conversations and when the second young man left he addressed the old man in a reproachful tone:
“How can you give two completely different answers to the same question asked by two people?
“My son”, replied the wise man, “each one carries in his heart what is within himself.
Anyone who has not found anything good in the past will not find anything good here either.
On the contrary, he who had loyal friends in the other city will also find loyal and faithful friends here.
Because, you see, every human being is led to see in others what is in his heart.

In life you always find what you expect to find .. because everyone projects outside what resides within himself.

STORY OF A PASSENGER

A girl was waiting for her flight in a large airport lounge.
Since he would have to wait a long time, he decided to buy a book to kill time.
He also bought a packet of cookies.
She sat in the VIP room to be more quiet.
Next to her was the chair with the biscuits and on the other side a gentleman who was reading the newspaper.
When she started taking the first cookie, the man took one too, she felt indignant but said nothing and continued reading her book.
He thought to himself "But look, if only I had a little more courage I would have already punched him ..."
So every time she took a biscuit, the man next to her, without a single sign, took one too.
They continued until there was only one cookie left and the woman thought "Ah, now I just want to see what he tells me when they are all finished !!"
The man took the last cookie and split it in half!
"Ah, this is too much" she thought and began to snort and indignantly took her things, the book and her bag and walked towards the exit of the waiting room.
When he felt a little better and the anger had passed, he sat down on a chair along the corridor so as not to attract too much attention and avoid other sorrows.
He closed the book and opened the bag to put it inside when ... when he opened it he saw that the packet of cookies was still whole inside.
She felt so much ashamed and only at that moment realized that the packet of cookies like hers belonged to that man sitting next to her who had shared his cookies without feeling indignant, nervous or superior, unlike her who had snorted and even she felt wounded in pride.

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