It is not easy to explain, to open up, to write with your heart in your hand. Especially if done publicly. No, it is not at all. But, I got bored. I have reached the limit. This is why I decided to go to the beach. The place where I can scream, cry, despair, destroy myself. Immediately after looking at the sea and feeling alive again. The only place that reminds me of home. It is while I am sitting here that I write, it seems to help me. In front of me I have an expanse of blue waters, a sea that hurls itself against rocks, waves that wet the sand and are then claimed again by their master. And the wind that cradles me, gently, like a caress, while the ink stains the white paper. I'm here to write something, something too much. I am here because people listen little and perhaps by reading they will understand more.
During these years I have met many, but many people. Galore, I'd say. But, how many are left? I look around and I wonder too. Almost no one. It is said that the ones that remain are the most important. There have been some people who have remained, yet only until recently. The rest, all in passing, after making you believe the existence of the unknown. Get out, go, run away. Like a shadow in the night. A trail in the sky. A flash in front of the eyes. They weren't even afraid of being infected with a deadly disease.
And now, I still wonder how long this story will last. What do you think I am? A cigarette that you can light, smoke and then throw away? A dirty glass to leave at the bar, to wash and reuse? Or a simple mat on which you can clean your shoes, easily replaceable?
I am human. I am made of flesh and bones, too. And I have a heart. Is it so difficult to believe? I have a heart reduced to infinite microscopic pieces.
Because I too have feelings, I too would like to trust those around me, I too am afraid of losing people. I can hide it. I did it. And it didn't help. People just felt entitled to hurt me even more. More and more. They don't give up. They don't give up until they see you bleed, crawl. "She doesn't care anyway, she never cares." Who knows if they really believe what they say.
The truth is that I am not infallible, that weakness is within me, it lives within me. I fight it every damn day, every single moment. Weakness leads me on dark roads, dark thoughts. Only my head knows how horrible some have been. It pushes me to make absurd decisions. Weakness is a strong rival. Unbeatable. As strong as I may seem, as strong as I may believe I am, I easily collapse when my roots are uprooted from the soil.
The truth is that every time it is more and more destructive, that it is not true that sooner or later you reach the point where nothing hurts you anymore, nothing touches you anymore, nothing demoralizes you. It is not true that we become imperturbable by everything, it is not true that we finally come to live in apathy. Those are all fairy tales. We create apathy by ourselves, as an escape from feelings. As an escape from ourselves, we lie to each other. We delude ourselves. We screw ourselves. And, we get to the point of believing that the best choice is indifference. It is not true. It is not so. Being indifferent is not the best weapon. Being indifferent is the most destructive weapon. It destroys you inside, slowly. It consumes you without restraint.
You understand that you have reached the limit when you start to change, you start to bring out everything that you have been holding back for years, you bring it out with all the anger in your body and then you feel the peace … the stillness, the world is silent, you feel free, that feeling of enormous weight that you have finally taken off. Only the power and warmth of your grasp could be able to calm the desperate scream that I hear rising from within. I hope You will understand this as soon as Your eyes rest on Mine.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 