“I don't have time”: how many times have we repeated this phrase or heard someone say it?
The main reason we don't have time is that we accumulate so many possessions, affections, obligations, desires and ambitions that we feel compelled to dedicate ourselves to it every single day.
Having a home, a job and lots of friends, for example, will greatly reduce our free time. This is because possession enslaves us, leading us to act out of obligation, not out of choice.
Let's imagine for a moment that we have to move to another city: how many goods would we like to take with us, and how many of these will we have to do without to prevent the suitcases from exploding?
The essential lives within each of us, in our memories, in our thoughts: the essential is ourselves. Everything else is pure selfishness to which society has accustomed us since we were little.
There is always an anchor. A detail that we keep. A voiceless message. A stain. A harmless visual detail that remains detached from all the pain. A light that survives a farewell. An image that passes directly from the transience of the moment to the fixity of memories. An image that becomes for us a vehicle of the hidden indexicality of those we have loved.
That image accompanies us over time. We recognize it from the contours even from a distance. It flickers in us like the flame of a candle but does not seem to go out. Even his absence becomes unthinkable. Every time we try to turn it into a shadow and let it go, its melancholy and circular appearance triggers an emotional return in us. As if by magic, the image re-emerges, appears before our eyes and forcefully reaffirms its presence, unraveling in a tangle of blinding lights that remind us of the subject of our love.
I too have kept an image of you, immersed in the yellow glow of the Sisto bridge lamps, suspended in the glow of those lights like a small fire that, regardless of the wind, continues to burn.
Occasionally, that image is briefly visible; others, it spreads out like a bright patch of sun with defined contours, edging the animated streets with its light. There are times when it skilfully camouflages itself in pools of water with yellowish reflections, times when it swings gently in rounded shadows and times when it spreads out in numerous irregular stripes, branching as far as the eye can see and casting its light even on the sharpness of the stones.
Every single time, however, your image brings up at night everything that remains hidden during the day: the clear light of a love that, like a golden sky, continues to survive the uncertain shadow of its sunset.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 