Being yourself exposes you.
Being yourself with time you realize that it makes you helpless because misunderstood.
To be yourself is to show your true essence, your true soul, and after trusting the outside world.
You realize that he leaves no way out for real people.
From that moment you really learn that it is better to build a mask and face life with a smile even if it is not true.
Even if it's not yours.
And behind that smile you suffer.
You are too unique and precious to give yourself at this point to the world that does not deserve you.
But only to those people who you will recognize as you are profound and unique.
Like you.
Life and its teachings are unpredictable.
Like the calm sea in appearance.
But it hides an intensity and a disarming passion.
My essence is part of it.
And nobody can control it.
But it can only lives me.
A year ago I met a boy, it was summer and instead of getting lost in the sea I was lost in the ocean of his eyes. I think I left the best part of me in those eyes. I met a boy, in a strange way, almost like life was having fun putting happiness in front of me and in an aimless race never to give it to me. He was different, I immediately realized, perhaps because I was basically the same as him. It was different, he still saw stars where others only described bright spots. He still believed in great love, that of old-time novels, while the others were content with false ties. He still hoped, believed and loved beyond explanation. And among the things he loved, I too ended up. I loved his kisses, how he held me close and how he was able to protect me with a single hug from the shit of the world. I loved the way he looked at me or the way our hands fit together perfectly. But more than anything else I loved how he thought, his speeches, his words, his every idea gave me life again and I didn’t want life anymore. They danced in the street, we were enchanted in front of a sunset, we sang in every square, we made love with our eyes, with our souls and only finally with our bodies. There was no corner of that small seaside town that we did not make ours. That city had its scent, and at the mere idea of ​​returning there I know that I would cry until it flooded it like Venice after a storm. I envy those who were lucky enough to always have it with them, but I believe that no one will ever understand it. He was different and even I sometimes didn’t know how to translate his gestures. His heart belonged to distant times. His soul was tied to some distant star. That boy shone with his own light. Our love was never understood, but when did it ever happen that madness was understood? Our love was madness. It was passion that burned with the same intensity with which a thousand Suns burn. It was desire that flared up and wore out every particle of our body, that desire that was every man’s fault. It was friendship that Plato described as the most honorable of human bonds, able to make us understand our deepest souls and dreams with a single glance. Our love was never known to mankind. And God I loved that boy so much I forgot even what hate was. And I never wanted to be taken away. A year ago I met a boy, but that boy never had the opportunity to know happiness.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 