STORY ON THE WALL

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.

ALL THE SPACE I NEED

Instead of continuing to do, do, do, it might be appropriate to reduce a little what you do every day and take the time to be.

Have you ever thought about how difficult it is to give yourself time to stay, reflect, meditate, look at life in a sunset, observe a cat, a flight of birds.

Can you answer the question "who are you?" without limiting yourself to the name, and to the work you do?
The "doing" often coincides with the "doing by force" which at the body level can be translated with a state of tension or with a general feeling of frustration.

This feeling, in words, is often defined with phrases like

"I have little space" or "it's all too full" "I miss the air" or "I feel back against the wall".
In all these cases one must return to one's own time, to pauses, to one's internal spaces, to those areas made up of borders, areas of contact and withdrawal from the environment and on the other that mark not only our internal times, but above all our needs.

What do I really need?





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