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.

A RIVER











It could be a huge river A ride of paws, a tumult, a fury A rage ripped off a torn stem A very high scream But also a tiny weed for returns The collapse of a pine cone burnt in the flame A hand that touches the passage Or indecision staring without seeing Anyway, something that we cannot lose Even if everything else is lost And that we will perpetually celebrate Because everything arises from that alone But before we get there First poverty as profound as leprosy And the cheated curses and true death What a credit to forget vain Or disguised as a revolution The school of joy is full of tears and blood But also of eternity And from the vanished mouths of the saints As the hedges of March the truths shine.

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