We tend to forget. Even when we say confidently "I will never forget this day" and after a few weeks certain moments have already faded outlines. Get the people then. Think of everyone you've met, the faces you've tried to impress in your mind, the voices you've struggled not to lose, the scents you've tried to keep.
What remains? What remains of all those films that immediately after seeing them you felt different, what remains of all those sunsets, of all that sea that surrounded you when you were most afraid or when you were happy? Take the kisses. If one could always and properly remember them there would be no need to kiss again and again, continuously.
Take loves. If one remembered the excruciating pain that one feels when they end up no one would fall in love anymore and instead then the pain becomes resentment, then melancholy and evil loses petals like a now withered rose and gives way to good, to tenderness, to a vague feeling of lightness.
Then people die and you think "she gave me this necklace, I will never take it off again" and instead the day comes when for one reason or another you have to take it off and who knows why you never put it back on. Then find yourself by chance a few years later and you feel vaguely guilty, but not too much, and maybe you want to cry but you can't. We tend to forget, that basically it's not even a bad thing if you think about the asshole of the third B, if you think about the one who would throw you on the ground in a while just to get on the train before you, if you think of all the times in which you felt wrong. We are designed to start over, in my opinion.
To return to love, to return to amaze us, to return to hope. There is no point in holding on to something that no longer exists, because trust me, if something still exists it will find a way to come and find you. Meanwhile, we have to get busy, learn new songs, savor the taste of being a light breeze and not always a storm. To change and not feel sorry for what we were, for what we have been. Change, which is the only way of existing that I know of.
In a dusty box, I found a thousand memories of a past life. I rediscovered myself 10 years ago, observing it with the eyes of an older sister. That little girl was full of hopes and dreams. He lived one afternoon at a time without ever caring about tomorrow. It smelled of autumn days, candy, cigarettes never touched. It reminds me of sleepless nights between messages, dedicated songs, a rush to grow up. The desire to run continuously, music with friends, volleyball games, the smell of perfumed pens, elastic bands on the wrist. The spontaneous painting, the sun setting at 5 o’clock, the color in the hair, the hooded sweatshirt jackets, the pizza with the stringy mozzarella, the empty lighters and the burning on the chest of drawers, the sound of the rain against the fibers, the jumps with joy after the exams, he ran them on the hot asphalt with bare feet. A rose was born from that asphalt. A rose that has never forgotten where its origins lie. A rose that developed the thorns of the petals first. A rose that, even if hit by winds and storms, still stands proud. A squad that has seen many people pass and few stop. A rose that has lost some petals, but has been able to flourish again. In my mind I keep, in color, the film of his life. I wish I could protect her from everything she will have to face, but in reality I think I should let her go: all the lessons I have learned in life are the fruit of her sacrifice. I hope to make her proud of us when in 10 years, inside an old dusty box she will find a thousand memories of a past life. Dedicated to that little girl without whom I wouldn’t be me today.
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 