WHITE FANTASIA ( part 1)

There are moments in which I would like to go back to when I was little, moments that I miss and that unfortunately will never come back. I miss that innocence and that light-heartedness that I had, I looked at the world with different eyes, a beautiful world. I imagined already after the age of 20 with a job, a guy who cared about me and that only I existed as a woman for him. I imagined many beautiful things, but everything remains the fruit of my imagination alone. I miss it when I played dolls, when I watched cartoons on TV, the beautiful ones that passed Italy one. I miss living in my beautiful imaginary world.
As a child my favorite singer was Domenico Modugno. My mom played the CD on the stereo in my room, while I sat on the floor and let myself be carried away by her splendid voice, from the melancholy of “Hello baby” to the roaring laughter of “Io, mammeta e tu”, in my opinion. best interpretation of the great classic. My favorite song was “Vecchio frack”, because I loved the idea of ​​that mysterious and elegant man walking through the streets of the sleeping city. As a child, however, I did not understand that in the end the protagonist committed suicide by throwing himself into the river. I thought “that top hat and that hat floats away” was a magic trick. The mysterious man was a magician, who at dawn decided to disappear, leaving his elegant clothing as a trace.
Only tonight did I realize the greatest indirect teaching I received as a child and which has always determined my subsequent life choices. My grandfather has always been curious and has always had an irrepressible desire for knowledge, which I then inherited. I remember that when we played “names, things and cities” he invented words when he could, to make me laugh. I was already a compulsive reader as a child, every week I was in the library to borrow four / five books, I devoured them with my eyes, brain and heart. He was making up words, then, and I was laughing like crazy. But then I wanted justice: “Grandfather, this animal does not exist, look, I’ll show you on the book I have in the library: there are all the species in the world and if you check the index it doesn’t fit what you wrote”. And he smiled pleased.
Tonight I had three of the most recurring dreams of my childhood. I clearly remember the feeling of fear and oppression I felt: it wasn’t there today. Today I was not afraid. In the first, when I got lost, dragged away into the sea by rushing currents, I didn’t start to cry, but I started looking, where I had landed, for an escape route. In the second, in the car with my grandparents, I managed to prevent them from the accident that would have dragged us down a cliff. But it was the last dream that struck me most of all: it is the one I best remembered having already lived. This time I wasn’t at the bottom of that hole in the ground asking for help, no. This time I was outside and by chance I saw the movements of a group of children who had fallen by mistake. This time I didn’t ask for help, I gave it. This time I went down the tunnel and led them out through the road I still knew from the dream of many years ago. I am no longer a defenseless child. Now I’m on the other side. Maybe it scares me a little.
Since I was a child I was fascinated by magic and the stories that spoke of it. But I had a big gripe. In nearly all, if not all, fairy tales, female characters fell into two categories: those who could use magic and those who found love. As if it were not possible for the protagonist (or co-star / love interest) to have both magic, or power, and love. In Snow White you could choose whether to be the sweet and inert princess or the cruel and doomed to a sad sorceress end. Same thing in Sleeping Beauty. In Peter Pan you could choose between the well-liked because helpful Wendy or the magical, but envious, Tinker bell.
When I was little and it was time to go to bed, my grandmother would lie down next to me and tell me a story. She almost always invented them … and then when I asked her to tell me an old one she didn’t remember them anymore. So, every time a story was “wrong” I interrupted it, and I began to tell it myself. Grandmother fell asleep. At that point I would get up leaving my grandmother in my bed and go back to play.
Taking advantage of the windy afternoon, it seems almost March and not October, I hung out the laundry … I like it, the memories of my grandmother and my mother resurface, I like it because then the sheets acquire a special scent, a freshness and a whiteness that not even as new they had. From the window I watched them beaten by the wind imagining that with all those jolts every little residue of negativity flew away, dispersing in the air. Maybe you could do all this with your soul.
I would start from the beginning … what do we remember about us? the first image that comes to your mind of yourself as a child? the moment when you become aware of yourself? The fact is that the first thing we do is establish a social contact of affection, without fear, with unconsciousness with those around us … So let’s go …I know that nobody cares, I’ve always known, I just can’t understand why I’ve pretended up until now that it wasn’t. Maybe I just lulled into the idea of ​​something different, because we humans are like that we like every now and then to live in the arms of our illusions that gently rock us and lead us to dream of receiving a few more caresses.
Under the excuse of freedom of expression hides a lack of empathy, tact and sensitivity. The sense of beautiful things has been lost a little. The habit of advising rather than insulting and the opportunity to remain silent rather than filling one’s mouth with unsolicited opinions on strictly personal life choices has been lost. They exchange smiles for falsehood, understanding for inconsistency, education for weakness and humility for hypocrisy. One is no longer accustomed to kindness.

%d bloggers like this: