In short, one day you wake up and decide to do Zac-Zac. Dry branches must be cut. On the contrary, you also realize that you have procrastinated enough, because usually one does the cleaning in the spring. I have in front of me the scene of that huge tree growing in the courtyard garden of my building: It was beautiful, luxuriant, I thought I loved it because it was like a cover. It protected the view on my living room, it protected from the prying and often too intrusive eyes of the surrounding windows. And in the darkness of winter nights it stood threatening with its bare branches. He was like a guardian, who could become vaguely disturbing when needed, but I was fond of him. So fond of it that when I woke up one day in April and it was gone, for half an hour I stared at the balcony feeling lost. 

They said it had become "unsustainable": too many leaves were dragging themselves away on the windowsills, too many insects flew around. It had gotten too tall, too bulky, it was TOO. And its branches, which seemed so strong to me, were actually completely gone. And so, zac zac, the tree was gone and I found myself face to face with the sky. And it was extraordinarily blue. Although the tree was no longer there, the new reality beyond my balcony did not mind at all. It all seemed more airy, freer, less tight. The sun penetrated more closely and the feared prying eyes weren't so prying.

Maybe sometimes we convince ourselves that certain situations are right this way, without trying to give us an alternative. We convince ourselves that without certain things our life would not be as beautiful, we impose on ourselves real emotional addictions, clinging to them, thinking that they are the only way, the only thing that can make us feel good. We are afraid of changing, even when situations become objectively unsustainable or meaningless, continuing to live like this, without really questioning ourselves about our happiness. 

At this point, we must take the scissors and cut: clean, strong, decisive. At first we will feel a sense of loss, but it is only the emotion of the turning point, the thrill of liberation; we will feel lighter and after a long time we will see the reality around us and it is probably much better than we thought ...


I often stay staring at the sky while I’m in the car or just when I’m walking around. I look at the sky because from there my mind opens and makes me reach the sea of ​​stars on the expanse of salty, clear water, full of star reflections. It reminds me of winter evenings, when with very few degrees I was short-sleeved on the beach taking pictures. As I looked at the immensity of the sky, I imagined people who, like me, looked at nothing like a dreamer. I imagined people looking at the stars immersed in black to return home or as they looked out on the balcony or the bedroom window with a cigarette between their lips or a steaming cup, and in taking their time to think, they lost themselves looking at the sky with eyes and heart full of anger or sadness, letting oneself be engulfed in the bubble leaving the world outside, and who knows, maybe we are all astronauts but with the fear of leaving the earth and entering the darkness of the universe among the planets and the stars.
In my head there is an empty room for you, a glass of wine and a book of poems that I would have liked you to read, a comfortable sofa and a window on the roof to observe the shapes of the clouds, to watch yourself while you are busy looking for the constellations. From time to time I go back to that room, to bring fresh flowers and open that window, to breathe a little. I sit on the sofa with my knees to my chest and read that book, slowly sipping the wine, you know I like to savor things, but then I get up and lock that door, at least three turns, to think about it before opening it. Your place remains and will always remain, but I won’t let you in anymore. I will no longer give you the keys if you fill a seat only to then leave, leave a groove on the sofa and the goblet only half full. In my heart there is a room, certainly small and closed, there is not a window or a book. But there are blank sheets to write on, to fill with complicated ideas, that room is certainly more challenging, everything you write head, the page cannot go blank, you cannot leave without this room undergoing changes, everything will not return in perfect order as before, so I rarely let anyone in. A breath of wind will not take away your perfume, it will not go away, just as your memory will not and maybe neither will you. I got you stuck between these lines and a veil of nostalgia, if you enter the life of a writer it is inevitable to stay on a sheet.

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