Sometimes you realize that time passes and so do people, friends and years. Friends can be compared to a train, the train passes you went on it until your stop arrives and you get off and you are sure that one day you will never get on it again, then there are the trains that you miss those trains that could have made you different life, even just for a day or even for an hour, they get lost like a lighter, a hat, a photo or even like losing sleep, but sooner or later another train passes, you buy another lighter, buy another hat, and take another photo, even if you are aware that it will never be like the one before, people leave lagoons, memories, moments, unanswered questions, emotions.
Sometimes you just want to be hugged and reminded that you're not alone, but you've become so good at hiding your feelings that by now you don't understand what you really feel, hate?, resentment?, happiness?
The human mind is sensational all those various nuances, that way of seeing through things, those various memories stuck together as if they were a puzzle, the various memories you carry inside, broken hearts, emotions never felt, people never faced.
There are moments that grow and together with them you grow too, you learn to be arrogant and without a heart, then they ask you why and why you've reduced yourself to all this, but you know it's useless to try to explain it would be just words thrown away case because I can't find a logical thread either, so you keep smiling and repeat: "everything is fine, don't worry"
"Excuse me, how much does a croissant cost"?
I have breakfast at the station bar, waiting for the 6:00 train, when I hear a guy ask the bartender:
"Excuse me, how much does a croissant cost"?
You hardly hear the price of the croissant or coffee at the bar. So I look at the boy and notice that it is as if he were doing the math. After a while he asks for a croissant. But nothing else.
He leaves the bar, I follow him, I notice that after a few meters he stops leaning against the station wall.
My train hadn't arrived yet, his regional was almost ready for departure.
I approach talking trivially about the weather, the wind ... and then ask him:
"how was the croissant?" And he: “it wasn't bad. Why are you asking me? "
I use the utmost caution:
“out of curiosity, I didn't like it that much. However, I haven't had coffee yet. Would you like to take it together? "
He looks at me curiously:
“sure, thank you, he's very kind. But I only have 10 minutes. Then I absolutely have to take the train, today is my first day of work ”.
We go back into the bar and I say to him:
"Look, don't you want a cappuccino"?
Accept. We consume and immediately go back to the tracks. The boy stops, sad look, low voice:
“I know he understood. And I thank you because you didn't make me weigh it. Today I start working, and it is not the job I expected. But I can no longer weigh on my family. Because my parents can't take it anymore. I always have a few coins in my pocket, but now at the end of the month I will finally be able to take something home too ''. Thanks again for the cappuccino and above all for the grace. These are not things to be taken for granted ”.
He runs to catch his train. Mine arrives almost immediately.
I leave with a sense of sadness, imagining how many people every day cannot afford even a cappuccino at the bar. But when this happens to a boy, sadness turns to anguish. It's not right.
Dreams in the drawer, underwear on the bed, doubts come out of the closet. Yet it always takes me twenty minutes to choose the shoes.
I open the shutters, another rainy day. The neighbor yells at her little girl, she doesn't know how lucky she is to have her.
Maybe we never realize the little miracles that happen in our life, for one reason or another, we are too worried about what doesn't happen.
I think another day has passed, even at 8 in the morning. I don't have time to start that has already passed.
Like sand from your hands, you would like it to gush out of your palms to the bitter end. I am hungry for life, I need air, I want to hug everyone before being a memory.
To slide.
The sensation of entering the skin of the train.
I walk away, the body following the thought.
I'm not here, I'm elsewhere.
They are not my feet anchored to the shiny, dirty floor.
It is not my eyes that see the reflection of these buildings that alter with uncultivated trees and abandoned cars.
This whole periphery is not mine, the strength that abandons me, the memory that presses to get out of my head.
It is forbidden to cross the tracks.
Forbidden to leave thoughts.
I wait for them to leave me.
How I abandoned you.
Nomad the beauty of a storm.
Sandy wind rose,
persuasive whirlpools,
frantic wanderers of the Dharma,
they put themselves in the shade
to avoid sound deceptions.
Here it comes, the heart thunder,
shakes every vein,
like a heart attack in the sky.
The power of awakening,
rising from one's grave, existential,
stand up again,
to live another day,
to be immortal. The heart does not know the veil of reason,
it goes like a train,
against every sandstorm,
embracing every grain,
opening a new dimension and handling sound like a weapon against ferocious old age.
Here comes the thunder, raise your voice,
says "don't give up" and starts flying with lightning,
and both create a universal energy field.
( ITALIAN RHYMING VERSION)
Nomade la bellezza di una tempesta. Sabbiosa rosa dei venti, suadenti vortici, affanosi vagabondi del Dharma, si mettono all’ombra per evitare inganni del suono. Ecco arriva, il tuono cardiaco, squassa ogni vena, come un infarto di cielo. La forza del risveglio, l’alzarsi dalla propria tomba, esistenziale, ergersi di nuovo, per vivere un altro giorno, da essere immortale. Il cuore non conosce il velo della ragione, esso va come un treno, contro ogni tempesta di sabbia, abbracciando ogni granello, aprendo una nuova dimensione e maneggiando il suono come un’arma contro la vecchiaia feroce. Ecco il tuono, alza la voce, dice ” non rinunciare” e si mette a volare col fulmine, e tutt’e due creano un campo d’energia universale.
Why continue to live a monotonous life in which everything is marked by always the same rhythms when one can interrupt the known and go towards the unknown of oneself? Why do you choose to get moldy in a job or in a life that becomes a cage when you can get on a train and go towards a different future?
If someone had told me I would have thought him crazy, but I miss the six o'clock alarm.
I know, some might say: You can get up early anyway.
Those people don't know me, they can't.
Another absurd thing that I miss: waiting for the train.
Every commuter knows perfectly well the annoyance of waiting for that damned Trenitalia train that always arrives late, but don't worry, when you are late you leave early.
I miss the confusion in the streets; certainly not that in the metro yet, a minimum of sanity remained.
But one of the things I miss the most is getting dressed.
No! I haven't been around the house naked in two months.
But before I dressed in such a way as to convey something to the people who passed me on the street, I dressed in such a way as to feel better, to instill courage or to feel pampered.
My clothes have always been part of my personality.
I know, it's stupid, it doesn't matter.
But sometimes it's the stupid things that are missing the most.
The green-eyed girl watched the falling rain hit the window; the drops competed to finish first, it was like a competition and the first one that arrived disappeared into thin air.
A bit like life.
Life is a constant race of speed, only those who keep running find their way while the others get lost halfway and in order not to waste time they take another one that leads them to unhappiness.
Then there are those like the girl with the emerald eyes who from the beginning do not know which way to take and remain at the starting point waiting for someone to pick them up and take them on the right path.
But that someone will never come.
Her eyes slaughtered by the night.
She who in her eyes had the routes to the moon.
She who was cold inside, the cold that freezes your veins.
She who no longer believed in love, she didn't want a guardian angel.
Those eyes have seen too many things for the few years he has.
Her eyes always on the edge of the precipice.
Always ready for the explosion.
They say that crying is good, good for the soul
But when your soul is too tormented where nothing makes sense they are just wasted tears.
Like, have you ever confused the dream with reality?
Have you ever been high?
Did you believe that your train was moving while it was stopped?
Maybe I was just a little girl and that's it.
I watched that small, lonely piece of ash that had managed to escape from the fire that burned relentlessly, slowly turning the wood into simple and useless ash. It was still alight, still bright orange, and rising slowly, skyward, and then ... Poof. To disappear.
It was a simple pre-Christmas evening, the people in the square, the fire lit near the Christmas tree, the songs that resounded in the main streets, the lights ... Wherever you could breathe the air of celebration, wherever you turned you meet us looks happy and bright smiles.
Children scurried along the sidewalks, competing to see who could get on the train first.
I was there, in front of the lit fire, admiring the beauty of my small town, in the arms of those who, with a simple glance, could make me feel butterflies in my stomach. There was silence between us, we weren't talking because there was no need: our intertwined hands, our looks and smiles said everything; said it all the sweet kisses we exchanged, light and slow, which managed to drive me crazy in any case.
I turned to look at him, and once again I lost myself in those hazel eyes, so bright and cheerful, so deep, in which I continually drowned, losing the strength and the will to resist. I ran my gaze on his face: from the eyes I looked on the nose, then on the lips, so beautiful to kiss, and on the cheeks, so soft and warm ... I returned to rest my gaze on his eyes, which were now staring at me have fun, managing to get me a sincere smile, once again.
If you present yourself with a naked soul to a person, you are presenting yourself unarmed and defenseless. You are giving him all of you: hidden truths, your emotions, your soul. As you do this you need to be aware of it, you need to know that there can be an after-effect of ashes. You must know that if and when he goes away there will be nothing intact inside you because you have given him everything, but believe me when I tell you that there is nothing more beautiful than doing it totally without limits or inhibitions. Without putting a limit on your being. But while you do it you must not underestimate the consequences, the taste and the quantity of the tears of the after, of how much it could hurt the end or discover that it was only “lies of words” to enchant you and make “Strip” your soul. If you introduce yourself to a person with a naked soul, do not underestimate anything because afterwards it will be too late “to get dressed”I think it’s in our nature to want to try to the end. We are not made for lukewarm emotions: when we choose, for better or for worse, we do it with the heart and soul, and we do not give up until we have given our all, even what we did not think we had. Pain does not scare us, this is our problem, so we are willing to throw ourselves into the flames … All in a desperate attempt to keep a balance, something as abstract as love, which we women continue, despite everything, to believe that it is concrete and stable.
I like the idea of the station, of the train. If I stopped even for 5 minutes at the station, my whole life would pass from there: my life in the past and that of the future. I don’t know why but the stations have something magical about them. Sometimes I would like to go to the station and stop there for hours, just to observe the people, try to understand their gestures, their lives and their thoughts. Because only if we stop to observe can we capture the details. Also, I think it’s the only place that can give me the answers I’m looking for. For example, I could talk to a bum: after all they are nothing more than people who need someone to listen to them. I could find myself in front of scenes of children leaving their mothers to go to work or college or mothers leaving their babies to their husbands because I have to leave for work. I might meet travelers getting on and off from train to train to get around town. Or I could witness the kisses: the real kisses and the goodbyes, the real ones of two young lovers. Who knows maybe I could also find some crazy kid (like me) who has decided to escape but who in the end can’t because he knows that what he leaves is too precious for him and if anything one day he will take a train, it will be the one for eternity.Or maybe the person I really imagine I’m meeting is a woman. I don’t know what age, maybe around fifty, or maybe younger, I don’t know, I know for sure that I could share my whole life with her. I know that I would not hesitate so much to tell him all the things I have never told anyone, everything I have inside and I know that behind his silences his answers would be hidden. A person who would be able to undress me, in short. To strip myself not of the clothes, but of the masks that society obliges me to wear, that I manage to strip my soul: to dig inside myself. I love this type folks. But I don’t just love the people I can find there, I also like the objects, the sounds we find in the station. For example, his bell always reminds me of the school bell, and how at school it rang when the time changed at the station it rings when a train arrives. The benches make me reflect on how sometimes it is bad to wait for someone or something that does not arrive, and then all the tiredness that we carry with us. Then there are the time tables that remind me that everything has a time: life is based on time and it is up to us to decide how to occupy the waiting moments.Then there are the tracks … well I love those. You never know where they end up, you only see infinity in front of you and behind you, and then if you see them at dawn, what a strange effect they have on you. And then the tracks made me understand that coincidences are nothing more than a pause: you stop, parallel to something else and after a while you leave. And since for me life is made up of coincidences, because I don’t believe in destiny, I realized that every time I stop I leave with a different baggage, richer or poorer, ruined or healthy and shining, but the fact is that that coincidence has changed something. That’s why I don’t believe in destiny, we are the proponents of destiny… at every coincidence we stop and it is precisely in that waiting time that we decide our future.
Over the years I have stopped clinging to the concept of “Time”, to place all my hopes in it. It is true that it has undeniable power but it does not work miracles. If we continue to do the same things, if every night we go to bed thinking that we have met the only person able to understand us, to love us, we continue to tell each other a lot of nonsense and it happens that the more we put memories on the pedestal, the greater it will be. the propensity to think that only one person is the right one for us. The more we do this, the more we build impassable walls. It is from there that suffering arises and it is from there that we do everything to continue basking in pain because it is simpler, it costs less effort than getting back into the game. See dear, you can wait as long as you want but things only change when we really want to change them. True, love hurts like hell when it ends but I assure you it hurts just as much to be alone. It could happen that people, who for you could be a cure-all, pass you by and leave because you don’t even see them. So you suffer but then keep in mind that sooner or later you will have to wake up on your own and dive into life. As that genius Nick Miller used to say, life sucks, then it gets better (he also says it sucks again, but don’t think about it).
Your hunger is my own hunger. Hunger to go further, hunger to discover unknown desires that belong to us, hunger for those who can’t stop, hunger that is not made up only of meat, moods, groans, hunger for the soul. Your thoughts are my own thoughts. Thoughts written in the same language, thoughts soaked with everything that stagnates in the hidden folds of being, turgid thoughts that bathe the mind, the flesh, which do not torment but awaken repressed primordial appetites, silenced, misunderstood, unavoidable, insatiable. Your key is my own key. An unread poem that I know by heart, a melody never heard but heard, recognized, a work never seen but realized, complete, liked. We are made of the same substance. A closed set that is not completed, but which adds making a difference.The world has its root in the earth and its crown in the earth. Like a Moebius strip, it coils around itself. Shoulders hunched under the weight of expectations How I carried them in shopping bags. And from the shyness that does not hide from you because it has a short veil. Life is so much a cinema that you are silent. Your bottles have no messages. Who says the world is wonderful, has not seen what you are creating to stay there. Shut up, no opinions. Your ceiling, stars and planets. Headlong into your limbo, prey to thoughts. Proceed through your maze without walls. I survived the woods and beat the ogre. Leave me alone, make an effort, and take your time. And don’t be afraid that …
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 