MEMORIES IN THE BOOK

I always put my memories in books, like that flower picked up from the ground that evening in the park, and when they stand out without having memory of them I smile, but those smiles so bitter and beautiful that they crumple all my thoughts, crush them in a corner and remind me that there are times when I was really happy. I close my eyes and think that sometimes I have good ideas too.
It wasn’t spring or even summer, it was a season that was a bit like that, meaningless. Dry branches to be cut, weeds to be eradicated, flowerbeds to be arranged, arid earth to be watered. But there was the sun, a warm sun. And so much time available, she thought of the patience gained waiting for the flow of life, that melancholy dress so tight it took her breath away, but so alive. It was only a season, a long and slow season, and maybe it was right, after all, everything has a time, sooner or later spring would come.
We mark the time, in minutes, hours, days, months and years, and at the beginning of each of these we hope for a better day, a better year, we are convinced that that number that changes at the end of a date really means something. In this way we remember blocks of time in single memories, the days pass and we do not even realize it, another year is about to end by luck or with reluctance but our thoughts always go to that unaware tomorrow whose face we do not know. , we make good resolutions, imagine beautiful things and make many promises but who really knows if at the end of the next last midnight we would have kept them all? It’s all a question mark but this fascinates us even if it doesn’t change anything, even if things go wrong we always see that light of hope in things. Each year is special and leaves something inside us, this year I have learned many thingsā€¦. I learned not to be under any illusions, not to believe in promises, not to imagine that things will get better, not to take anything for granted not even time because nobody gives it back to us, I learned not to trust, not to give hundreds of possibilities, not to believe sincere words and lying eyes, I learned not to put too much heart into things and finally I learned that despite all this hope in something good, every day motivates us to live every good or bad moment.

SIMPLICISSIMUS

Very often I happen to take a photo and look at it. Thus, without saying and, at times, thinking nothing.

Especially in shots like this. Where the gaze is relaxed, but almost dull. A look that says nothing, but says everything.

A look that leaves the imagination of the observer free.

This is also what I like about photography. The unknown. A good unknown though.

A bit like when you read a book and it is we, only us, who make the image it tells our own.

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.

STORY OF A GIRL ON THE BENCH

It happened a month ago. I was sitting in the car, as my father was driving around, he was ready to buy something; the car was a patched church from a near to the park and to pass the time I observed the people, parrot and they could not see me, because the windows yes, but I, if they shouted, could also hear them. There were many groups and small groups scattered around the park, they laughed, joked. I noticed a girl sitting completely alone on her bench, it was the bench closest to my car so she could see well her big sad eyes that each both guarded in all over the park and, by chance and met others immediately turned to look down. Her dark hair was tied up in a disorderly fashion, in a notebook on her legs and a pen in her left hand, she was left-handed. He stared at the notebook with the tip of the pen between his teeth and, each wrote, as unexpectedly encourages inspiration. Every now and then he would stop and get in his way quickly. I saw a tall handsome boy approaching the bench, he asked for something pointing to the bench, read nodded and then he sat down. I lowered the window a little, just not to be seen and heard, where absolutely to see how it ends. The girl had closed the notebook leaving the pen inside, the boy raised his hand in the air and started shouting according to someone to approach. And here comes a beautiful girl, the classic barbie who stands next to him. -Sorry, we’re leaving soon, we have to wait for some friends but we’re giving a lot of standing time and there is no free bench, it bothers you say it .- She shook her head with a forced smile and then turned away from the Other part, not from saying no. He made a strange face, put his hand on his forehead and shook his head and I understood. He probably thought -How could I think that it was come here for me, what a fool! in a romantic puzzle. Then he lowered his head, I knew what he was feeling, I knew it very well. The people who passed in front of that bench turned around for a moment to look at it, pointed at it to the rest of the group and then a general laugh was heard. She pretended not to hear, not to notice, but her knuckles had turned white from how much she held the pen. Another boy approached her and without asking anything he sat down, she didn’t even look at him. He did not call anyone, he stood there and looked in front of him, clapped his hands on his legs and his right leg moved nervously. He asked the girl for the time and she coldly answered him, without even looking into his eyes. Then he continued to write. After a few seconds of silence he asked her -What do you write? – Her pen fell on the ground, she didn’t pick it up and then said: -Nothing that could interest you- -That I should judge- -The truth is that I have never read to anyone what I write- – Are you a writer? – -I would like to, but it’s not my gift, let’s say .- -How do you know if no one has ever read what you write? – -I need to judge what I write. – No it is not true. Do you think you are beautiful? – -I? Of course not .- -Here, you see? For me you are instead, and in my opinion it is the same thing with what you write- -I really have to go now- said the girl getting up. The boy stood there saying nothing, watching her as she walked away. After a while he got up too, and with his hands in his pockets went to the opposite side. I was shocked, I didn’t understand why she left, she wasn’t used to being complimented and she probably couldn’t handle the situation. I would have liked to get out of the car and stop her, tell her there was nothing to fear, to try to be happy, but how could I if, in the end, I am like her? And so a month went by, I didn’t think about it anymore. Yesterday I was walking around the town with a friend of mine, I was talking to her quietly when at a certain point I saw her, the girl from the park, she had loose hair and a beautiful smile and, you know the nice thing? He was holding hands with that boy, they walked past me and I looked at them for a while. Who knows what had happened, from that afternoon to that moment, what story there was, I wanted so much to know it, but, for the moment, I’m content to imagine it. I just hope they will be happy.





DONNA TART-THE GOLDFINCH

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