Luckily I stocked up.
No, not of flour, yeast and toilet paper, but of racing, of the sun, of diving into the sea.
Of life in the woods, of nights in tents, of vigils at the stars, of campfires.
Luckily I cooked on the grill, I hugged millions of times, I drew volleyball courts on asphalt and sand, I played a hundred treasure hunts, I lit bonfires and sang at the top of my lungs to the sound of a guitar.
I have backpacked miles for miles to places I've never been.
I felt the rain on my head, I sang under the trees, I wrote with sticks in the sand.
I swam in the waters of an ocean at midnight when all was silent.
I inhaled the scent of wet ground.
I loved so much, I cried and I smiled.
Fortunately, otherwise what would I think now?
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.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 