Sometimes you realize that time passes and so do people, friends and years. Friends can be compared to a train, the train passes you went on it until your stop arrives and you get off and you are sure that one day you will never get on it again, then there are the trains that you miss those trains that could have made you different life, even just for a day or even for an hour, they get lost like a lighter, a hat, a photo or even like losing sleep, but sooner or later another train passes, you buy another lighter, buy another hat, and take another photo, even if you are aware that it will never be like the one before, people leave lagoons, memories, moments, unanswered questions, emotions.
Sometimes you just want to be hugged and reminded that you're not alone, but you've become so good at hiding your feelings that by now you don't understand what you really feel, hate?, resentment?, happiness?
The human mind is sensational all those various nuances, that way of seeing through things, those various memories stuck together as if they were a puzzle, the various memories you carry inside, broken hearts, emotions never felt, people never faced.
There are moments that grow and together with them you grow too, you learn to be arrogant and without a heart, then they ask you why and why you've reduced yourself to all this, but you know it's useless to try to explain it would be just words thrown away case because I can't find a logical thread either, so you keep smiling and repeat: "everything is fine, don't worry"
All these things will be forgotten,
all these things will be drowned,
all these things will be just memories,
the world will no longer have this image,
and the sadness of knowing what will happen makes me drown,
it makes me water,
I dream of the sea,
I dream of it.
Sand under the sea,
but when the high seas will come
there will be no sand but only the end of this land as I see it now.
All things will become different and this scares me
and I don't know why all this will be allowed,
why does God want to extinguish man again?
I have no answers,
maybe he doesn't have them either,
he is thinking about it,
he is deciding whether to do it or not,
whether to give us a chance,
but he sees the hatred and the war,
and the violence,
and how can he say that we are still one thing good?
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.
I know how important presence is. To be there, what a beautiful word. Beyond distances, time and logic, we are able to carry within us even those we can no longer have close to us, and this strange measure of things betrays the embarrassment that certain distances have, when they forget the infinite importance of memory. . Memory is stubborn and when it takes it into her head to save a memory, it saves it. And he knows how to defend it and he knows how to protect it. For example, I only think of you twice a day. When I’m alone and when I’m with someone else. You are ubiquitous in me. Even now that you are not there and I am writing to you without you knowing. Perhaps, if I had told you, you would have understood that everything I want for me I want for you too and that even if it is often not right, it is always for a good purpose. Of everything I like, I’ve always taken two, one for me and one for you.Sometimes you meet a person who is not meant for you but you keep bumping into that wall. I am tired of apparent solutions. About my stubborn feelings and all the times when reading a message or waiting for it I thought “Maybe I’m the problem”. In the end, I admit, you were right. You were right when you said I was too impatient. Impatient were my feet, my hands. But the heart no, he knew how to wait, to wait for you. And if I think about you, it’s because my organism after a while I’m away needs to think about the things that make it feel alive. I had the words impatient that they could not shut up when they wanted to be right. I had to stop contradicting you when you said you weren’t the right person for me. You were the right person to understand that decisions made when excited then make you feel damn stupid when exhausted. Now I don’t want to be too happy because of you. I always run away and I never have time to get attached “.
Time keeps running fast The days go away in the blink of an eye And all those idioms: Time will fix things; Give time to time; They are not true It should rather be said that time during the day can also solve things, because with all the commitments of the day you do not have time to think and get sucked into the vortex of thoughts and memories, but if during the night they come back to the surface even during the day they remain stuck in your mind and those usual feelings that you naively thought you had overcome are felt again and you are even more vulnerable than before because you thought you finally got rid of them. But time continues to flow does not stop to give you time to recover The commitments of the days do not disappear on the contrary they increase. And you are forced to find that strength of yours to move forwardWho defined that a human being must necessarily be an adult? I understand that life always puts us to the test and puts us in front of many more or less difficult decisions that make us forget or put aside our childish side. And more often than not we forget how we were as children or teenagers, even modifying something of our past. But what’s wrong with keeping the naivety and lightheartedness typical of children? A dog, even if an adult behaves like a puppy, is not taken for mad, but if an adult behaves like a child, he is taken for a madman. We let ourselves be influenced too often on being more “Responsible” or more “Mature”. Who has determined that our character must necessarily be a child or an adult? How many times does that childish side re-emerge and pour out onto things or people? We can be both according to the situations. After all we are all a bit children.Those who are “good” are always a little naive. The gaze is clear, direct, the smile full of honesty, the attitude is always ready for the comfort of others, even if his heart can be filled with suffering. For not being understood, for giving love with both hands and for receiving hatred or derision. To feel hurt and never even thought you could hurt. The naive knows no desire for revenge. The naive knows love. And feel love in admiring a spectacle of nature, as in reflecting yourself in another smile. The naive is full of wonder and enthusiasm, even if his heart is sad.
Because you were more than a grandmother. You were so much more. Not only did I feel safe with you. Not only with you was me. And the dances in the morning with our favorite record: the “hits of 2005”, the breakfasts with milk and cereals. Not just laughter. Not just scolding them when I wanted to sharpen the markers. Or when I refused to help you. Not just beautiful things. Not just the imitations of grandfather, which made everyone laugh. Not just the jokes around the house, not just the stories. Your stories. I remember them all. When you talked about them in the evening, when I was tired of playing and had finished dinner. Your stories. I remember them all. They were so far-fetched, yet I miss them too much. And the fantasies. Our fantasies that others will never understand. And when I was little I found in you the support, the comfort. Then when I got older and you a little older I became your support. Your comfort. Every day I curse myself for all the time we could have spent together and we didn’t. A lot of things awaited us. Because you were more than a grandmother. You were so much more. Not only did I feel safe with you. Not only with you was me. And the dances in the morning with our favorite record: the “hits of 2005”, the breakfasts with milk and cereals. Not just laughter. Not just scolding them when I wanted to sharpen the markers. Or when I refused to help you. Not just beautiful things. Not just the imitations of grandfather, which made everyone laugh. Not just the jokes around the house, not just the stories. Your stories. I remember them all. When you talked about them in the evening, when I was tired of playing and had finished dinner. Your stories. I remember them all. They were so far-fetched, yet I miss them too much. And the fantasies. Our fantasies that others will never understand. And when I was little I found in you the support, the comfort. Then when I got older and you a little older I became your support. Your comfort. Every day I curse myself for all the time we could have spent together and we didn’t. A lot of things awaited us. I wanted you to be there again for my birthday. You would have showered me with compliments the entire month and beyond. And when every time I have to pose in a photograph with the remaining grandparents, it hurts to see everyone go away like this. I know you’re there. But not being able to touch, hold, hear your voice anymore. It hurts. It hurts so much. And miss you. You would have showered me with compliments the entire month and beyond. And when every time I have to pose in a photograph with the remaining grandparents, seeing grandfather alone next to me, it hurts. I know you’re there. But not being able to touch, hold, hear your voice anymore. It hurts. It hurts so much. And miss you.
I love to smile and I love my life .. no existential drama, no depression, no suicide mania, no self-defeating thoughts! No, I’m cheerful and carefree, I like to listen and tell, I like to look around and discover the world, discover people. I love the eyes because they tell about us more than we will ever say. I love listening to music that speaks to me about something, that reminds me of emotions, that reminds me of long aperitifs, endless car journeys, monologues with myself and films that made me cry. I love good people because they look at the world with tenderness and warm my heart. I believe that everything happens for a reason, a reason that we may not be able to understand and therefore we just have to fall in love every day of our life as it is.My grandmother once gave me some advice: In difficult times, go forward in small steps. Do what you need to do, but little by little. Don’t think about the future, not even about what might happen tomorrow. Wash the dishes. Remove the dust. Write a letter. Make a soup. You see? You are moving forward step by step. Take a step and stop. Relax. Give yourself the compliments. Take another step. Then another. You won’t notice it, but your steps will get bigger and bigger. And the time will come when you can think about the future without crying.
Still old friends on the horizon, where I left them. One day I will not see them again - and the bitter satisfaction of the increasing distance will be replaced by the euphoria of a world of my own that extends as far as the eye can see, where only I will be able to find warmth and shelter.
Someday I'll get to where the ghosts of those I've known would be terrified of being - that will be my home.
my grandparents' town was so small that, when the ambulance went by, my grandfather ran after her in the car to see what had happened and my grandmother waited anxiously for gossip.
I am happy, happy to see that the people I know grow up and wear ties, evening dresses. They settle their heads, get serious, give firm handshakes.
Training completed - congratulations gear!
I am happy to see that I have not yet become what the TV suggests, that I still have the instinct to escape. What I have always summarily labeled "inadequacy" of myself begins to take on more defined contours, sharp edges, timid fangs and claws to be sharpened.
Choke on your ties, I want to run, roar, live.
I was wondering “I, for example, why did I want to become a writer?
Indeed, for what reason the writer himself? "
I looked for the deep memory that was to be connected to this choice, one of those that embodies the moment of the "crossroads". I remembered my high school literature teacher who said he had to leave a mark or, perhaps, I made up this memory; probably, I was just someone who, like all the deluded kids of my TV generation, had found a job with which to become famous.
At the time, for TV, they were the footballer, the showgirl, the singer, the actor, the actress, the presenter, which was a bit of a sociological thing, indeed, precisely, it was often a real "sociological consequence", such as for those of the generation before ours, that of our parents who, after Apollo 11, all wanted to be an astronaut and the girls, on the other hand, all wanted to become dancers, probably because they saw the first true female freedom on one black and white screen.
Plastic dreams that smell like food until you start biting into them.
Generations and generations of astronauts and dancers, of footballers, of actresses and actors, of volleyball players thanks to Mila and Shiro, of dreams that have often been broken and that have not been realized.
Now there is another screen, full of colors, to always carry with you: now there is the internet, the phenomena of the web, the InstaStars, the TwitterStars, the fashion bloggers, the influencers and us who often do not we don't even have an influence on our life.
I wondered what this dream pursued over time of wanting to be a writer was, I wondered what it had brought in my pocket to follow it until then.
That day I had practically reached the breaking point of my life where it is as if I woke up to look underneath my dream in the drawer and saw that it said IKEA.
The stimuli to write my first real book, in fact, had been lost, faded over time and, frankly speaking, after this dismissal at the hotel I was no longer even convinced if I had really been cut out to be a writer.
I had written the book “17 years, in the summer” which had sold a good number of copies, it sells some now and then even now. I had published it at 19 only because a publisher had smelled the scent of easy money for the "kids" target, but I am still ashamed of most of the text, since then I have only published articles in music magazines and my very first book , the one heard, the one on which you spit blood and sweat I had not yet written.
That book published as a teenager, on the other hand, was about revenge, drugs, alcohol, identity research at the end of school, but it was only a summer love story with the usual late-adolescent problems; reading it now would perhaps even be a bit ridiculous, perhaps even 12-year-olds wouldn't read it now. Many of those teenage problems, socially speaking, are over now, or at least they want to believe they are, because perhaps it is most of adolescence now that seems over. Now, adolescence seems more like a very early adulthood, there is a too strong gap between childhood and adulthood, or at least much faster, some things, some actions, even some mistakes must be made in the "wrong age" "Right; this was the basis of the book with which I raised some money to round up: "If you smoke a joint at 10 instead of 15, if you already fuck at 12 instead of a few years later, if you don't enjoy some things before you know how to enjoy others, then you skip the steps too much, my friend. "
There was such bullshit about this book published at just nineteen.
It is true that I still think so briefly, but with the maturity and non-pride of thirty, at this moment, I know that I am nobody to tell you how you should live your adolescence or your life, therefore of that book, the I repeat, I am ashamed, even if they are right things they do not reflect respect for others and this is worth much more. However, if a story is written in a certain way, even at seventeen and published at nineteen, it can be enjoyable for those who are going through those problems and emotions and also for those who want to remember them.
However, without the purity of time in recounting the events of the protagonists, that book would certainly not have sold more than copies equal to the number of my aunts who, even if buying it, would still have complained about the fact that I had not given it to them at Christmas.
Maybe it's that I was no longer hungry to write, maybe I worked too many years in that hotel among the rich, maybe I bought too many useless things, maybe I should find a good girl by my side and stop being infatuated with those a little more crazy, but I don't even want one that, as they say, “Where do you leave it”.
Leaving the hotel behind me, I said to myself: “Maybe I should send everything to that country and take a trip. Yes, a trip.
The problem between two individuals or a group of individuals, in general, is that there is a misunderstanding. If the intentions were black and white from the beginning, there would be no need to argue, to feel sorry, to put the word END to any type of relationship.
Misunderstandings lead to not understanding each other, lead to countless expectations (almost always wrong), lead to suffering.
Why can't we be clear from the first moment?
Why do we all have to pretend to be respectable with good intentions, but then act like people without a shred of goodness?
We deceive, we deceive ourselves and others for fear of accepting the fact that, almost always, we use others to achieve a purpose, we use others because we are used to doing so.
Then who thinks of the others?
First we hurt each other and then we throw each other away, as if we didn't want anything, as if it were a competition to see who is more of a SHIT. Well done!
Who won now? NOBODY. Because in being alone we only have to lose and because, as much as we can convince ourselves that we are well, a part of us will always be sick.
With time then the MEMORIES remain and with those we realize that we have FEELINGS, we realize that we are human. But the saddest thing do you know what it is? We would not like to have any feelings, to be able to simply "cut the rope" when it suits you, not to "stay dry" when others throw us away.
Oh yes, we are so WEAK actually!
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 