From the horizon of the one you loved, you return to fully inhabit the visual field. It happens like this. On an ordinary day. Without notice.
It has a strange effect when you realize that you are holding the massive armored door of your heart open with one foot and that you keep holding it open. It is you who allow the blazing light of emotions to filter inside, beyond the blurry shadow of the dark alleys where you were hiding. You don't quite understand why you do it. You just know that you feel an excitement doing it. It doesn't cost you any effort. You don't even wonder why you don't close it. In fact, you don't run away. You feel only the new and urgent need to show yourself openly. - It can't be true - you tell yourself.
A breath of fresh air bursts into your life and sniffs you out from behind the scenes. You rediscover yourself hungry for emotions. Understand that the inner world can be lived and not just described. You even let go of the worry about the ending. It matters little. What matters is to live it. In a continuous shock.
You no longer feel love as a threat but as a real possibility of encountering the world of the other, without macroscopic distinctions: you find the courage to approach it. You no longer worry about protecting your borders from the onslaught of a concrete presence: you agree to investigate the tortuosity of your life, sharing them.
You climb over barriers. You abandon yourself to the enchantment of the moment. You reach out with a smile beyond the line of memories. Pushed by an irrational unleashing of your impulses, you pour yourself completely away from your asphyxiated family habitat. Push your limits a little further. A step beyond the tangle of feelings that have remained entangled in the memory in a more or less latent form. Beyond the lacerations, doubts and insecurities. Beyond the forest of question marks that had kept you company behind the windows from which you continued undeterred to observe the world. Beyond the contradictions, ambivalences and despair inherent in a difficult and troubled love. Beyond that melancholy mood that had been the background to the ever-changing flow of days. Beyond the painful and resigned awareness, the chilling fear and the bewilderment of loss. Far from the discomfort that miraculously ceases to be such.
You pass from the ground of alienation directly to the stage. You abandon the guise of an impassive observer and those of an unfinished character. You return to the scene. You do it as a protagonist this time.
You pass from the closed door of the heart to the open door of the soul. Without running away from something, from someone. Without running away from yourself anymore.
Growing up with an always sad mother. With a woman who sacrificed her job to raise two daughters. How many women sacrifice their careers because husbands don’t want them to neglect their children? Growing up with a mother who little by little no longer laughs, no longer sings, does not want to go out, becomes antisocial, changes character. A father who commands with money, with greed, with control over everything from clothes to food. And he has the power to say yes or no. A mother who is stripped of her worth, humiliated because she stays at home and was forced to choose to be close to her daughters. A woman finished, emptied, become unhappy. This was my mother. Destroyed by a man who wanted her only for himself and always at home. Instead she was a very good stylist, she had a lot of creativity and imagination, she taught me so many things. But then it got bad because of my dad. A woman should never be hindered by a husband or life partner or boyfriend.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 