The hand on the bed, the messy body mixed with the sheets, the tousled hair, a ray of sunshine on her back. How can a human being feel so dull in such a lively context? The body between the sheets, and the mind where? The mind in the streets, gripped by a grip of people all the same and all so extinguished, all so ashes of a fire that does not rekindle. A body that mixes with the sheets and a mind that is lost in the ashes of a pain too strong to be faced, too violent to be placed on the pillow. Rising from the ashes means bringing the body to support the mind, held in that suffocating grip. There was a moment when the body was hidden by the sheets, and the sun did not touch the back. Slowly the wind blew off the sheet and exposed her back. The sun has passed the curtains. And everything that was dark before is now light. Now that the body is strong, the mind is free. Life burns back inside, starting from the feet to the heart. And like a child dreams of flying beyond the confines of the sky, dreams of changing the world. I will change the world, until the sun burns my back.
You are fine alone, but alone you suffer a lot. You would never admit it, but it shows in how nice you are to anyone, even to those who don’t deserve it at all. You want people to love you, and however much you walk with the air of someone who doesn’t need anyone, you constantly need someone. Boundless fears and tiny feet that don’t allow you to escape far enough. You don’t know how to go far away, then you miss the air and you don’t know what to do, you like Italy, but it’s not Italy that you like, it’s those ten or eleven people in all, without whom you would not know how to go on, because it takes you years to become attached to someone, but then it’s forever. Or in short, almost. Like all beautiful things. You make me smile when you say you don’t believe in infinite loves and then I find you moved in front of a cartoon that should have made you laugh. You never cry because you are disappointed, when you are disappointed you scream. When you cry it’s because you hope, hope and don’t want to admit it. Hoping hurts you, somehow. You think it’s not like you, so you cry watching comedy movies and justify yourself by saying you don’t really know why, “it’s been happening to me since I was little.” And how are you now? Do you feel great? You like the night and you like songs that are no longer used and idioms that are no longer used. Everything about you is sincere, even the way you dress and say the words. Even the way you breathe. You don’t control yourself, you can’t and you think it’s bad, instead it’s wonderful, you are a wild flower, one of those flowers that cannot be picked but only looked at. You perfume a lot, if you were a memory you would be the smell of freshly washed sheets, if you were me you would love yourself as birds love to fly, with a necessary love. If you were me you would love yourself so as not to die. I am here looking at you, you look like a poem that no one will ever dedicate to me, one of those poems that when you read them you think it would be wonderful if someone saw you that way and loved you so much, instead nothing, but no less beautiful , not for this, ever.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 