A girl was waiting for her flight in a waiting room of a large airport.
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 began to take the first biscuit, the man also took one, she felt indignant but said nothing and continued reading her book.
Between her and her he thought "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 making the slightest nod, took one too.
They continued until there was only one biscuit left and the woman thought "ah, now I really want to see what he tells me when they are all finished !!"
The man before she took the last biscuit divided it in half!
"Ah, this is too much" I think 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 in 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 in when…. when he opened the bag he saw that the packet of biscuits was still whole inside.
She felt so much ashamed and only then realized that the packet of biscuits like hers belonged to that man sitting next to her who had shared his biscuits with her without feeling indignant, nervous or superior unlike her who had snorted and even she felt a wound in her pride.
A memory. Sudden. Precise and sharp like few others. A little girl. I think bigger than me. Always riding his black bicycle. Short blond hair. Slightly moved. Dark floral dress. She always smiled at me. But we never exchanged a word. I saw her for a year. The next one was gone. I don’t know what it was called. And I didn’t dream of it. My parents have seen it too. So of one thing I’m more than sure. It was real. As much as me.
Over the centuries the idea of beauty has always been present in the mind of man, although the way in which it is understood has changed several times. In fact it is something universal, but different in various societies and in single individuals. It can be considered as an aesthetic factor, even if over the years from this point of view it has assumed a somewhat superficial meaning, since it has often been based and still is based today on the canons established by the society in which we live, ready to have prejudice as soon as there is something different from the established patterns.
But the beauty lies precisely in the diversity, in the particularity, in expressing one's tastes regardless of the opinion of others, in being imperfect. It is therefore not something that comes close to perfection, but something that has "charm", that strikes, that attracts.
In the past, beauty, understood as creativity, has always been a sort of sublimation of man's passions. The external one was expressed mainly through artistic productions, including paintings and sculptures, and was associated with other qualities. Think of the goddess Venus, goddess of beauty and fertility, represented with prosperous forms (beauty of the body as a symbol of prosperity, grace and elegance). In Greece, in the 5th century BC, beauty (expressed for example through statues) was synonymous with perfection, which included not only physical qualities such as strength, but also moral and ethical qualities, such as courage.
Classical art therefore sought harmony in all senses, a harmony that was also sought in the beauty of nature and creation, also expressed over the centuries through poetry. Just think of Foscolo, according to whom the beauty of creation was reflected in the beauty of poetry. External beauty was also the subject of some artistic-literary currents, including Aesthetics, which developed in the 1900s with Decadentism, and which was based on the search for beauty as such, a futile beauty, which gives momentary pleasure but it really leaves you unsatisfied.
I think that beauty is not just an aesthetic factor, but everything that can make us excited. Not necessarily something grandiose and spectacular: it lies in small things and small gestures. A song, an unexpected gift, a child's smile, an unsolicited hug, the rainbow after a storm, the sun after the rain.
I believe that the most important form of beauty is the inner one: being a beautiful person, with healthy values and principles. What conquers someone is their attachment to life. A beautiful person inside is an empathetic person, who knows how to listen to others, who manages to face the most difficult situations without ever losing his smile. A sincere, humble person who has the courage to accept defeats and who never gives up. Beauty is accepting yourself for what you are, feeling good about yourself, feeling unique, loving yourself, loving and being loved.
Beauty is appreciating and feeling lucky for what you have. It is being able to achieve your goals and make your dreams come true. It is freedom: being free to say and do what you think, without being influenced by anyone and without being afraid of being judged. And if you are afraid, the beauty lies in being able to defeat it. The beauty is found in the simplest, most genuine and deepest feelings, such as love and friendship. Sometimes it would be necessary to use a little of our time to rediscover relationships with others (in a world that tends more and more to materialism and that gives importance to the most trivial things) for a complete formation of our personality.
In a word, it can be said that beauty is knowledge. It is in fact a way to know reality, from all its points of view. In order not to lose the sense of beauty, it is necessary to investigate it, know it and understand it: this will allow us not to get used to it and make it last over time.
As Dostoevsky, a Russian writer, says, "Beauty will save the world".
“I am Sofia, a little Ukrainian. I lost my arm, my mother and my cat in Bucha. I am one of 910 children who suffered because of the neighbouring country”
This is a message from Sofia who was living in the hospital for the last three months. Although she is in safe Rome now, a girl shudders at every sound and fears planes. She feels phantom pain. When she is worried, not only her non-existent hand hurts, but also all over her body.
Before the Russian invasion, Sofia did equestrian sports, but now she is not sure if it would be possible in the future again. She dreams to have a prothesis. It will help her to reduce the pain and even be able to do routine, like dressing herself.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved butterflies very much. She wore brightly colored clothes and, when she spoke, she moved her small arms with such lightness that they looked like vibrant wings in flight. His gait also brought with it that lightness that only butterflies naturally possess. And like butterflies he loved flowers and took great care of them.
With his mother in spring he planted bulbs and seeds and waited patiently. His little brother, still small, watched amused.
He had become her little messy little helper! At the first warmth, a leaf appears, a slender cuff, the first flower, then many others, all beautiful in their shapes and shades of their colors. Soon many beautiful butterflies would also arrive!
And the little girl was delighted and remained enchanted for hours watching that spectacle of lightness, colors and perfumes. Sometimes it happened that a butterfly would rest on her hand and the little girl was almost breathless with emotion. It remained motionless to enjoy the beauty of those colored wings and the tickle of those curious paws.
One day his little brother got a bad flu and had to stay in bed for several days. The little girl was very sorry to see her little brother suffering and sad. Then he thought of a surprise that could brighten his days. It immediately occurred to her to prepare a short story about flowers and butterflies. While his little brother was dozing, he wrote a very sweet story and prepared a merry-go-round made with wood twigs tied together, to which he hung colorful butterflies made with tufts of his mother's carded wool. When the little brother opened his eyes after his afternoon nap, the baby was there, ready, next to him. She smiled at him and started reading his story. The little brother listened raptly, in silence, with sparkling eyes.
Eventually the little girl took the mobile and showed it to her little brother. Quick as a flash he took it with his little hands and began to play with it, moving the sticks to make all those beautiful butterflies flutter.
Soon the little brother was back to health and that mobile became the best
All of us, including me, are with our minds invaded by a thousand ideas, but lately I have been thinking more and more about the fact that in today’s world no one makes the effort to think, but think seriously about his life, the values he has, the people, both those who are close to you and those who have gone away, what emotions do you feel when you wake up in the morning and live your day until you go to bed in the evening … Everything is too big compared to us, little human beings who think they are full (some with money, some with commitments, some with desires, some only with merits, some only with defects, some with a combination of all this), but who they’re actually fucking empty and meaningless. In my reflection in front of the mirror, I see a girl with two big blue eyes like the sky but which express nothing but false happiness because in recent years I have learned to swallow many injustices and things that are difficult to accept but also to take hits stronger than me but if internally they knocked me out, externally I had to stand up and walk with my head held high in order not to lose control of my life. Sometimes I have lost it, I do not hide it, leading to very negative and self-destructive consequences. Sometimes I think about how fast I have grown, too fast due to various events that have happened, perhaps with too much strength, stubbornness and stubbornness. Do you know what for? To put up with two parents who asked me to behave in a normal way and see it right despite being 8 years old. I wish I had a time machine. I would like to use it to see my mom again who, despite coming home from work tired, smiled when she ran to me to kiss my forehead or to laugh out loud when my dad tickled me on the hips or to watch movies on the sofa all three together, in short, to have my moments of stability and pure family joy back. Now only small, but at the same time clear memories remain, to which I cling to smile if I feel bad. Finally, I really think that current life is taking us all away, in its immense river of frenzy, superficiality and general hypocrisy, so every now and then put yourself in a position to reflect on yourself, it is the best gift you can give yourself. If you think that life is crap, maybe sometimes you try, for example, to be less hasty when you have to run to catch a train and stop for a moment to observe the beauty that the sky has, even on dull and rainy days, or to turn it off. smartphone to go for a walk to free yourself from stress, or politely return the greeting to those who offer it to you, in short, simply live as you should.
Six years ago a friend of mine gave me his bicycle as a gift and he is gone forever. For three years the bike has always served me: I loaded it like a mule to do the shopping, we went a couple of times away and then around this green area, for months she and I, her bike. For months and miles, it was my car. I remember that she was waiting for me on the last sidewalk of the station when he left. When I left for London it was brought with great difficulty to Padua and when I returned from London I went to pick it up from Padua. It was raining heavily that day, rivers of water lined the streets and the Paduans found a girl in the rain who splashed water everywhere and sang the Christmas song “Jingle bells” in the middle of summer. I was very happy to be able to ride a bike. When I arrived at the station, the track for the bike was the last one, outside the station shelter and so I had to forcefully fit the bike onto the wagon and then pull it up, in the midst of a thousand curses on that last wagon before the locomotive. Unlike the one I have at home, this one was called “Little Mermaid” because during the winter rains of a cold and merciless reverse, I always emerged from the waters on her saddle and stayed afloat. I walked around in sub-zero temperatures and warm socks under my pants. Then one day I went to the library, serene as always, and when I go out I haven’t found her. You took away not only a bike of questionable economic value, and of fundamental practical value, but you also took away a dear memory and a piece of my life. The Little Mermaid was the only memory I had of my friend. Thieves assholes!
The green-eyed girl watched the falling rain hit the window; the drops competed to finish first, it was like a competition and the first one that arrived disappeared into thin air.
A bit like life.
Life is a constant race of speed, only those who keep running find their way while the others get lost halfway and in order not to waste time they take another one that leads them to unhappiness.
Then there are those like the girl with the emerald eyes who from the beginning do not know which way to take and remain at the starting point waiting for someone to pick them up and take them on the right path.
But that someone will never come.
Her eyes slaughtered by the night.
She who in her eyes had the routes to the moon.
She who was cold inside, the cold that freezes your veins.
She who no longer believed in love, she didn't want a guardian angel.
Those eyes have seen too many things for the few years he has.
Her eyes always on the edge of the precipice.
Always ready for the explosion.
They say that crying is good, good for the soul
But when your soul is too tormented where nothing makes sense they are just wasted tears.
Like, have you ever confused the dream with reality?
Have you ever been high?
Did you believe that your train was moving while it was stopped?
Maybe I was just a little girl and that's it.
- sorry, would you have a cigarette? -
He saw her every morning. He knew she was one of those good girls, who never smoked. He wasn't the type. But he asked him; not so much for the cigarette as for talking to her. Just to see her lips in a dance just for him, to tell him something, anything. For him.
- no sorry. Still better for you, right? Smoking is bad -
- bad? Bad for what? -
- ah I don't know. Brain, lungs ... heart -
- what if one smokes to forget the harm they have done to his heart? -
- then in that case he needs help. He's killing himself. But I'm not a doctor, I can't know -
- Help? Guy? -
- like love. -
- and what is love like? -
- it's like when you smoke a cigarette and take his soul, but then it gets inside and kills you. But sometimes it's not like that -
- and how is it, the other times? -
- it's like when you kiss a strong person so that he can get inside you, and that person could kill you instead he chooses to save you. -
- then? -
- and then he hugs you and puts your heart close to his -
- and you? -
- I what? -
- you don't smoke. Do you have a person who can save you? -
The girl laughed.
- they were just metaphors. I don't believe in love. It was a nice way to tell you that smoking is bad for you, just like love does -
- you must have huge scars in there. -
The girl looked down.
He took her hands, looked up and saw those dead and empty and dark eyes.
- we will have to learn to hurt each other, what do you say? -
- what are you talking about? -
- I save you and you save me. Make love. We hurt each other together. Maybe every day or even every hour. But we keep ourselves alive, because we hold hands. So, are you there? -
- what if we end up killing ourselves? -
- what if we end up loving each other? -
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 