There was a time when I had an Italian blog and I wrote poems, personal things, I showed my paintings, I talked about my problems. I didn’t talk about gossip and fashion and therefore few people commented. The thing that amazed me most about people who didn’t write me half a word of encouragement is that these same people filled other blogs with sweet words, looking like sensitive and empathetic people. I was left in absolute silence. I still see these people writing beautiful things commenting on the misfortunes of others. So I wonder, what did he dislike about me? My spontaneity? My knowledge? Why have they never seen my pain? I could have died and no one would have known. I can’t understand why these people write so many words to others and never write half a word to me. Yet I wrote comments in their blogs and I always participated and tried to read everything but this was useless. I remained invisible to them. Yet for others they have many kind words for everyone, they show a lot of affection to other Italian bloggers. Even now I don’t understand what was in me that he didn’t like. It seems so strange to me to see them write affectionate words to everyone and instead they did not deign to me and I never had even a word of comfort. They say that Italians are warm and affectionate, well as an Italian hostess I have to deny this version, because I have never had any comfort from any Italian user. Maybe I was too sincere. Maybe I was too naive. But I still don’t understand. I have found more love among you who live far from me, and even overseas, and not from my countrymen and I cannot understand this. 2,000 followers who read my blog and no charitable soul who would tell me anything. In the end I deleted the blog because their silence was very bad and I was very bad because even as an abused child I was always invisible. And so I thank all of you, I thank you from my heart, for being close to me because in certain bad moments a word is enough to make me understand that I exist.
Fragility is part of me, this is true; I feel very emotional and sensitive, able to grasp details that people are not normally able to fully grasp Even those details are fragile: those little pieces of the world that no one sees, perhaps hidden by the shadow of chaos and lack of time … see them, and I appreciate them. I see the fragility of the cobweb after it has rained, when the droplets of rain run down the threads … I see how easily it could snap, and I sigh, hoping it doesn’t. I am so fragile that when I see a bee, or a hornet, or any insect that could hurt me, that is drowning in a basin, I bend down and pick it up with my hands, because I know it won’t hurt me, because in that moment we are both fragile. At that moment we both suffer. can’t explain more clearly the sense of fragility around me, but know that wherever you look, in everything you see, there is always a crack, a delicate edge, something that if you look even more carefully, you will find fragile. Almost as fragile as you are.
Whenever you come across a nice person you are faced with an amazing effort, a huge commitment, you are faced with a person who works on himself continuously, a worker of the heart who works night shifts on behalf of everyone you are in front of a person who never escapes, who manages to put care even in his distraction, who has learned to cause silence when offered to her a provocation remember that you are in front of it a story full of stories, long walks in the countryside of villages that we don’t even know how to pronounce, you have in front of you, a person who does not fear loneliness, who has learned to be alone to become an island to be alone who took his break a lifeline which he made of his salvation an anchor for others you stand in front of it to those who have known despair in person but she did not despair, that has disappeared from everyone, scattered everywhere, depended on no one, dispensation of the world whenever you come across a nice person thank life toast to the universe bow to the sun invents a Sunday throw a party you are in front of a work of art extremely fragile like the canvas of a painting, definitely immortal like a painting.Fragility is part of me, this is true; I feel very emotional and sensitive, able to grasp details that normally people are not able to fully grasp. Even those details are fragile: those little pieces of the world that no one sees, perhaps hidden by the shadow of chaos and lack of time … I see them, and I appreciate them. I see the fragility of the spider web after it has rained, when the droplets of rain run down the threads … I see how easily it could snap, and I sigh, hoping it doesn’t. I am so fragile that when I see a bee, or a hornet, or any insect that could hurt me, that is drowning in a basin, I bend down and pick it up with my hands, because I know it won’t hurt me, because in that moment we are both fragile. At that moment we both suffer. I can’t explain more clearly the sense of fragility around me, but know that wherever you look, in everything you see, there is always a crack, a delicate edge, something that if you look even more carefully, you will find fragile. almost as fragile as you are.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 