I wasn't like that before, I was a flower, simple, unaware,

easy to love but also to walk on, I was free from fears and prejudices, I was beautiful in my naivety; I looked at others thinking that they were like me, I saw the good everywhere, I did not perceive the back thoughts, I did not understand the distorted perspectives, the evil end only in itself. I was clean, too transparent, I let anyone into my heart. I loved in the only way I knew: instinctively and completely.

Then that flower was mistreated, ignored, laughed at, hurt, rejected, abandoned.

It lost its beauty but remained firmly planted on the ground because it had strong and long roots.

But nothing has been the same as before.

I surrounded myself with obstacles and walls, higher and higher, I closed myself so as not to reveal the thoughts of my heart to anyone. I hid, as best I could, so as not to be found. I attacked because I had no other weapons to defend myself.

And now I have become a flower covered with thorns, perhaps I am no longer beautiful to look at. Maybe not even to love.

But I await those who patiently know how to extricate themselves, who will accept to get hurt, who will not look at the thorns but will see beyond, who will simply free me.


There is a beautiful English word that I love: “wallflower” means when a person is shy and stands aloof. Indeed it is just like that, no one notices a flower on the wall, yet it stands there to observe the way and think that it is in the wrong place. Who is right, who would want a simple flower when the world is full of strong and wonderful trees, capable of such high self-esteem that they allow them to compete on who gets taller?


I weave my hair, letting the unruly locks frame my face. The same ones that you rolled around your fingers, before placing a soft kiss on my constantly chapped lips. My dark eyes become shiny and my reflection takes the form of a blurry mass. I tie the braid with the usual damaged elastic, which I always keep on my wrist. I hug tightly in the sweatshirt; suddenly I got cold. I sit at my desk. I think, letting myself be enveloped by that sense of emptiness that suddenly filled my chest. Yet, after you, so many things have changed. Even if the others don’t notice when they see me arrive, with my backpack full of writings on my shoulder, and my faded Nikes on my feet, nothing is the same anymore. My way of walking has changed, because after you every step of mine has become uncertain; I’m lost. And the hazelnut color that fills my eyes has become so thick that it doesn’t allow any emotion to leak out. My playlist has changed, but all the songs keep bringing me back to you. And even my smile, which once drew a web of wrinkles in the corners of the mouth and eyes, is now always forced, so much so that it looks like a grimace. I open my diary, letting my fingers savor the pages soaked in ink and tears. My way of writing has also changed; my words are so irregular and flickering that they give the impression of falling into the void and shattering into a thousand pieces. And here, at some point, our last photo together. The only one I printed. The ruined edges, the crumpled and creased paper. With my index finger I slowly retrace your image, in the illusion of being able to feel the softness of your lips and the way they bent to pronounce my name. I continue, towards your freckled cheekbones and, if only I could go back, I swear I would memorize every single constellation they formed. I keep going, until I get to your hair, and the memory of how much I liked to ruffle it makes my heart tremble. Everything gets too blurry and shaky, so I hold the photo tightly to my chest and start crying like a baby. My head is full of unanswered questions, and anxieties. And I know that no one will come to hug me and will be able to tidy up that tangle of thoughts, just like you knew how to do. Between the terror of forgetting the sound of your laughter and altering the tone of your voice, I don’t realize how much my hands are gripping our photo, and the fear of having ruined even a single frame of you petrifies me. I put it on the desk and watch it. Two years. Two years since the last time your perfume remained on me. From the last time your clear eyes looked at me, in the way that only you could do; as if despite all my mistakes, you continue to be perfect. Because for all the mistakes I made, you were able to make me feel right. Two years since the last time my fingers squeezed yours, that your lips tasted mine, that you whispered “I love you” in my ear. Two years since we finished. Two years that I continue to be stuck in the past, refusing to live in a present without you. On my cell phone, your last message is a voice note. You were saying “in 10 minutes I’m under your house.” And you don’t know how many nights have been spent listening to it, and listening to it again, and listening to it again. You don’t know how many times I’ve waited for you, outside the gate, just like last time. For 10 minutes. Which then became 20. Then 30. Then an hour. But you never came. When I learned of the accident, everything became dark and silent, and I no longer felt anything. I remember the car ride with dad. I remember the swearing to find the keys and start the car as quickly as possible. I remember my sweaty hands rubbing undeterred on my jeans and my heartbeat pounding against my rib cage, so hard I thought it might break. I remember the road that seemed longer than usual and the rain falling too hard. Then I remember the ambulance lights. The police car. And another car inside the ditch. And finally your car, with its crumpled hood and shattered glass. I remember when I opened the door, a strong sense of nausea began to rise from my stomach and that my legs were too fragile to support the weight of my body. I remember my eyes were so swollen and I had lost so many tears that I didn’t cry anymore. The frost inside me. I will never know that was the last thought that embraced your mind before going off with you. I will never know the last thing your eyes saw, or the song you were listening to, or the last words you said before leaving the house. All I know is that something broke inside me, creating a chasm, which from that moment began to grow in me. I locked my heart in the safe, and then myself, to the whole world. Once on Sunday morning you always brought me a rose, with a small cream-colored note tied by a white ribbon to the stem. There was always the same phrase “Whenever you need me, and I can’t be there, breathe the scent of this rose, and I’ll be in you. And you won’t feel alone anymore.” Now, every Sunday morning I head to the cemetery, clutching a rose. Who would have thought that in the end I would be the one to bring flowers to you every week, huh? In my note, with my terrible handwriting, I always write the same phrase : “

Not even in the perfume of this rose did I find you. I feel so alone. Please fill my lungs again, because without you, even breathing became difficult.


If I think back to how much love I gave to people who didn’t want it, how many disappointments I had, how much sadness and suffering, how much anticipation and anger! now it doesn’t seem true that the end of all this has come. I poured my love into hearts that did not feel, into souls that did not live. I gave myself to people dead inside, to those who did not know what it meant to love, to those who do not yet know what it means to love. I painted love in minds that just wanted not to love. I tried, tried, risked everything about myself, even my sanity, my inner well-being. And all because within me this energy needed to flow out, to be given to others, to expand, to go out and fulfill itself. After so much wandering, the unexpected landing is the best thing. Where you never thought you could find a place of peace and serenity, you arrive right there by chance, discovering that everything that was was only a prelude and to what would come after. After so much torment, so much existential fatigue, after every conflict and inner struggle, now I can say that everything has taken its place within me. That there was a total stop of that wild and dangerous flood that came out of me every time I tried to stop myself. That noisy and chaotic waterfall that poured onto the other, like an explosion of uncontrollable energy, now flows by itself in a different way. The tiger that roared inside the lotus flower has now disappeared and the lotus flower has opened and shines with light never seen before. My Tai Chi master had seen well, but it was I who couldn’t see because the times weren’t right yet. There was all that water that stirred my heart, which deprived me of that vision of myself that I still could not have. Because I was not yet ready for enlightenment. Now I understand that enlightenment can only be found if it is not sought. It comes at a time when you don’t look for it at all and you may feel you can never even get there because you are not the type, because you do not have that way of seeing or feeling. Because you are in the hell of life and you can’t think that anything else can exist. It comes at a time when the last thought of your life is to have that vision and that peace that you have always dreamed of. And only now do I understand why it is so difficult to describe it to others, why it is difficult to find the words that can describe such an inner state. It is a bit like when Buddhists try to explain that suffering does not exist and that it is only a construction of man. If I go to see what has been inside me so far, I find nothing but nothing. But it is that nothing that is stupendous, that is a whole. Because becoming nothing, becoming emptiness is a splendid thing. Nothing has become my past. There is no longer any trace of it inside me. There is no one and no thing. Everything has vanished into the nothingness that I am now. A lotus flower needs only water to grow and water is the only source it needs. Everything else no longer exists. The inner light is the only source, the rest is something that never comes. My being is aware of the journey it has made to become the Void, and the acquired well-being is extraordinary. Because my being no longer needs anything. Love, anger, life, sun, food, friendship, internet,… ..all these things seem made of smoke to me. I am like an impalpable fog inside me. No sensation comes to me from the outside but it is my being that flows and that’s enough for me. Before, the world was the fertilizer for my plant. Now my plant grows by itself, has its roots in the sky and the sap comes from the light. It does not need anything else. The void needs nothing else. My heart is still beating, it is alive, yes, but inside my heart there is only infinite light. Inside me there is only one lotus flower that blooms every day.

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