It is seven in the evening and, on the fifth floor, Mrs. Kapoor is ready to devote herself to preparing dinner. Like every night. At that time, you will be able to see her busy in the kitchen. The first thing you'll notice through the open curtains is the flamboyant color of her Sari. Looking closely, you will notice the graceful decorative effect created by the folds, similar to the petals of a flower. In many years, I have never seen her dressed differently. It holds true to its traditions, despite having moved here to Venice for some time now. He does it with clothes and food. Every day, at seven in the evening, you will always find her there, struggling with the preparation of Roti. You will see her carefully knead all the ingredients, expertly dose the spices for the accompanying curry, divide the dough into many small balls of equal size, heat the usual old plate until it becomes hot, place each cooked disc in a cloth after having brushed it with oil and close the flaps with extreme delicacy. His are habitual gestures. Simple. Family members. Actions repeated almost mechanically every evening. Year after year. Mrs Kapoor, every evening, without knowing it, makes me feel at home.
Mrs. Kapoor is a certainty in a world full of uncertainties.
A girl was waiting for her flight in a waiting room of a large airport.
Since he would have to wait a long time, he decided to buy a book to kill time.
He also bought a packet of cookies.
She sat in the VIP room to be more quiet.
Next to her was the chair with the biscuits and on the other side a gentleman who was reading the newspaper.
When she began to take the first biscuit, the man also took one, she felt indignant but said nothing and continued reading her book.
Between her and her he thought "but look if only I had a little more courage I would have already punched him ...".
So every time she took a biscuit, the man next to her, without making the slightest nod, took one too.
They continued until there was only one biscuit left and the woman thought "ah, now I really want to see what he tells me when they are all finished !!"
The man before she took the last biscuit divided it in half!
"Ah, this is too much" I think and began to snort and indignantly took her things, the book and her bag and walked towards the exit of the waiting room.
When he felt a little better and the anger had passed, he sat in a chair along the corridor so as not to attract too much attention and avoid other sorrows.
He closed the book and opened the bag to put it in when…. when he opened the bag he saw that the packet of biscuits was still whole inside.
She felt so much ashamed and only then realized that the packet of biscuits like hers belonged to that man sitting next to her who had shared his biscuits with her without feeling indignant, nervous or superior unlike her who had snorted and even she felt a wound in her pride.
Once upon a time there was a color that belonged to a famous painter. It was never used, it was almost always in a drawer of a piece of furniture that was in a corner. His color friends mocked him and chased him away. One day he couldn't take it anymore and so he ran around the streets of the city.
He was carried by the wind, was wet with rain and ignored by passers-by. By chance he found himself in a poor street and was picked up by a poor child dressed in rags. The color made this child happy who felt rich and started doing it right away
of the drawings.
When the painter realized that the red color was no longer in the drawer, he suspended his painting to look for it. He looked everywhere, but he couldn't find it and so he went to buy another one. From that moment on the painter decided to use all his colors and not to exclude even one.
Finally, with regard to the child, he remained a very happy child who made some money by selling people beautiful drawings. With the proceeds he bought other colors and painted even more beautiful designs.
She was perched on that wall. Right on the edge of a barely hinted spring, yellow with sun and scattered words. She looked around torn between the hesitation of taking flight towards the uncertain, and the fear of staying still and waiting. Stop on that wall aware that waiting was not the best choice, but the alternative ... then she realized that he was approaching.
She had noticed him immediately, as he wandered around her with a synthetic and brazen indifference. He had seen him approaching from afar, when he was a barely hinted silhouette, yet as if he already had a perceptible and concrete presence of his.
It was nice.
It was not an explicit thought that manifested itself inside her, and she certainly did not want to admit it to herself immediately, but she understood it in the very moment in which she understood that she had chosen the alternative of staying, of remaining still on that wall waiting for life followed its course even beyond its will to choose. He made another round, more and more concentrically close to her, then overcame all hesitation and stopped on the wall next to her.
Illuminated by the rays of the sun she was beautiful.
Here he is, he is here next to me. But she turned her head in the most opposite direction, staring into the void always full of emotions and anxieties. They didn't move. There are moments that are so solid it is possible to mark them in all their prolonged instantaneity. Those were such. Prolonged, slow and delicately sweet.
But she was turned towards nowhere and stared at the nonexistent. Almost he wasn't there. But he was resolved now. He concentrated all his vital energies in one point of the mind transmuting them into resourcefulness, circumnavigated her body and alighted next to her on the side of the gaze.
If she had turned her gaze again it would have been a definitive refusal. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to do it and he didn't. They finally looked into each other's eyes. You could have sworn they were smiling.
She blinked nervously. He wanted to talk to her, but he couldn't. He wanted to take her hand but he had no hands to do it. He just emitted a garrulous chirping remodeled in harmony with the essence of the universe. She answered with a syncopated and irresistible chirp.
They soared together, moving in a scented cloud of spring sounds. Below them the world was increasingly distant. The scattered words faded, and those teeming shapes were smaller and smaller, tiny, voracious and corrosive bacteria too busy devouring each other to have time to raise their heads and watch their flight.
More and more distant, more and more useless, more and more non-existent,
And they flew more and more alto.
There was a girl who was a butterfly and suddenly she decided to become a caterpillar. And she didn't care that she no longer had wings and was just green. She no longer wanted to fly, she just wanted to stay on the ground, in the grass, lie down outside, not stay closed in the concrete of the house, she always wanted to look at the sky, not to see people anymore. And he remained a caterpillar for a long time and did not want to go back to being a butterfly. He said to himself, spider yes, maybe, but never butterfly again. But then he saw a strange bright green beetle. He asked who he was. And he didn't answer and went about his business. And she lay on the grass sleeping, and she didn't want to see anyone. But one day a strange music came with the wind. Was it a flute? Maybe a child was playing somewhere. And she followed that music and she saw a home, a family, everything she never had, not like that. And he listened to the flute and within himself something melted. A weight that he had held within himself. A stone he had had in his stomach for so many years melted. She was hungry. He returned home but found nothing. He went out into the garden and went into the garden. He saw the fruit trees loaded and began to eat and eat and he felt better. The fruit was good, so sweet. He would buy a flute and play.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved butterflies very much. She wore brightly colored clothes and, when she spoke, she moved her small arms with such lightness that they looked like vibrant wings in flight. His gait also brought with it that lightness that only butterflies naturally possess. And like butterflies he loved flowers and took great care of them.
With his mother in spring he planted bulbs and seeds and waited patiently. His little brother, still small, watched amused.
He had become her little messy little helper! At the first warmth, a leaf appears, a slender cuff, the first flower, then many others, all beautiful in their shapes and shades of their colors. Soon many beautiful butterflies would also arrive!
And the little girl was delighted and remained enchanted for hours watching that spectacle of lightness, colors and perfumes. Sometimes it happened that a butterfly would rest on her hand and the little girl was almost breathless with emotion. It remained motionless to enjoy the beauty of those colored wings and the tickle of those curious paws.
One day his little brother got a bad flu and had to stay in bed for several days. The little girl was very sorry to see her little brother suffering and sad. Then he thought of a surprise that could brighten his days. It immediately occurred to her to prepare a short story about flowers and butterflies. While his little brother was dozing, he wrote a very sweet story and prepared a merry-go-round made with wood twigs tied together, to which he hung colorful butterflies made with tufts of his mother's carded wool. When the little brother opened his eyes after his afternoon nap, the baby was there, ready, next to him. She smiled at him and started reading his story. The little brother listened raptly, in silence, with sparkling eyes.
Eventually the little girl took the mobile and showed it to her little brother. Quick as a flash he took it with his little hands and began to play with it, moving the sticks to make all those beautiful butterflies flutter.
Soon the little brother was back to health and that mobile became the best
And he sees that that light comes from a doll, all broken, with the heart made of a light bulb .. and the puppet thinks, she will be my wife .. but when the doll approaches, her heart of wax melts.
How am I going to love you now that I no longer have a heart, the doll holds the heart in her arms .. and detaches the light bulb from her chest and says "if you love me one heart will be enough for both of us".
Smoke comes out of the tea next to me. I follow its evolutions in the air, completely random and at the same causal, dictated only by the micro-movements of the atmosphere around the cup. Most of the things that happen to us behave exactly the same way: they seem to be dictated exclusively by chance while in reality they follow very specific rules, they are conditioned by events, choices and reasonings to which we do not pay attention, because most of the time we are not even aware that we are breathing, let alone what we do. Rational thinking is the greatest deception of the human being because it makes us believe that we are masters of ourselves but it is not so and in fact this same reasoning is not primarily the result of my thought, and it is not even rational but, on the contrary, dictated by emotions that lie beneath layers and layers of logical constructs aimed at making sense of the fact that I am writing yet another post sentimental here. Here you see, the last sentence is the world beyond the veil, the deceit discovered, the emotion that crushes and annihilates reasoning.
And so I was not aware of anything, or more precisely, I was aware of little, because I have always done a bit of self-analysis but as always I underestimated the control I have over myself, little, especially when it comes to feelings . And it makes me angry to know that the reason was never mine, that I missed something right once, that I didn't know anything about how it would go, rather that I said to myself that it would go wrong to fool myself into being in control while imagining something that wasn't going to happen. existed. I was aware that I was deluding myself and I was deluding myself all the same, because in fact, I lack control.
And even right now I'm missing it. This post did like smoke from my cup, deceptively random evolutions. Now the tea has cooled down, no more smoke, that's it.
"Grandma, I can't stand a person."
"Bless her, my child. Because she is showing you parts of yourself that you cannot accept. You see them reflected in her. They hurt you, like blades entering your depth, because it is the only way to attract your attention. Thanks to you can see that person and integrate them into you. "
"Should I bless those who can't stand?"
"That's right! Everything that happens outside of you is a mirror of your inner self. It is showing you the way to enrich yourself more and more. Change your way of thinking about life. Fly high with your mind: look for the symbol, the meaning that your emotion has come to carry you, begin to see every person you meet in your path as a reflection of parts of you. Don't waste time on stupid complaints, superficial chatter and the usual prejudices. You have a treasure to find. Every time. your energies in this great task! "
"What an effort, grandmother ..."
"It is more tiring to stop complaining. And carry it like a burden, day after day. It immobilizes you, takes away precious energy, hinders you. Become a hunter of meaning. Go beyond people, facts, news."
"I do not know how to do it..."
"There is only one teacher who can guide you in this. You will never find it outside of you. It is your feeling. Your annoyance, your well-being, your anger ... are messengers of your Truth."
"And how do I integrate the parts of me that I don't welcome?"
"Respect what you feel, celebrate it, lift it up. Every emotion is sacred: if you can glimpse even a minimum of richness, the rest will come by itself. You will have new eyes, able to see beyond any wall. They are the eyes of your soul. ! "
All the stories that I publish here in the posts are present in my collection of stories "KIMERA" which is on Wattpad, so if someone wants to browse the other stories or read some other work of mine, I mean novels, they can go to my page of Wattpad and read and comment there. If you are also subscribed to Wattpad please give me your links so I will come and read your works too. Thanks everyone for reading me and have a nice weekend. The link for my stories is this:
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 