It's a cold day inside of me today, I realized when I woke up, and the first thing I did was pull back the curtains and admire that beautiful sun.
He tried to warm me with his powerful rays but failed.
Today is one of those days where I think everything I do is in vain.
I've spent the last few years working on myself. To protect me from everyone.
And if I had opened that window some time ago, that sun would have warmed my heart, I would have noticed the lady who lives right in front of me, I would have noticed every detail. Like her blonde hair always in warp even after she just woke up. The way she observed passers-by but suddenly turned behind her and went away, I would have seen her go away to enter the kitchen, to help her husband who was asking for "help" for a failure in the TV remote control.
And I would have smiled.
I would have noticed the bits of dust floating in those bright bands of sun.
But I didn't see any of that this morning.
All I saw was my empty bed, worn out by a devastating night.
The pillow wet from the dramas, the sheets impregnated with mistakes, the book reread a hundred times on the bedside table full of burnt hopes.
I close my eyes for a moment and I see him, I see someone on my bed asking me to lie down with him, who between one caress and the next, every drama goes into paranoia and leaves the room. That between a kiss and a look, given this way, almost without thinking about it, I see a rose blossom on that bedside table, making that cigarette that stinks of regrets and wasted efforts disappear.
But then I open them again, look down and see only those tattoos on my arms that are there to never make me forget that certain battles are too difficult to win.
And I also smile, yes, because sometimes I really believe in the bullshit I say to myself to cheer myself up, that after three minutes, it has the same effectiveness as a television teleshopping, one of those with low budget.
That you see them, and you think “do they really think they make me believe that those knives are capable of cutting even a diamond?”.
And you believe it, you fake it.
Finally, I make my bed, change the sheets, arrange the books under the bed.
I dress.
And I wear it. In all its beauty.
With all its sweetness.
I wear a smile, and even for today, the outfit has been decided.
Embellished with uncertainties and mistakes, persistent paranoia and perennial anxiety that I carry with me as if it were my favorite necklace.
In short, rich or poor, sooner or later you will be plagued by this uselessness of time. You will be bored by your work, by friends, by husbands, wives, or lovers, by the view from the window of your home, from the furniture or upholstery of your room, from your thoughts, from yourself. Consequently, you will be looking for escape routes. Aside from the tools of self-gratification mentioned above, perhaps you will begin to change jobs, residences, friendships, country, climate; perhaps you will indulge in sexual promiscuity, alcohol, travel, cooking lessons, drugs, psychoanalysis. In fact, you could put all these things together; and for a while the combination could work. Until, of course, you wake up in your room with a new family and a different wallpaper, in another state, in another climate, with a lot of bills to pay to your travel agent or psychoanalyst, yet with the same prohibits the sensation of the daylight that spreads to the window. And you will put on your slippers only to find that those are not the most suitable footwear to escape from what you recognize as familiar. And depending on your temperament or age, you will panic or resign yourself to familiarity with that feeling, or, once more, you will go through the process of change.
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.
There is a person, alone, leaning against a window overlooking the world, he looks but has his eyes closed, he is unable to see. He hears all the noises in the world: cars that run, children who laugh, those who cry, adults who fight, what they love. The leaves that move resting on the wind, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. He hears everything but cannot hear. He answers everything but is unable to speak. He would like to touch everything but is unable to move out of that window. There is this person who is desperate, but does not want to cross that fine line. Every day he looks, listens, answers. After months she starts crying every night, she was missing something that could not exist for her. Standing on the windowsill he screams, but no one can hear, because he cannot speak. He decides to go up on that windowsill every day, to make his voice heard. And scream, scream, scream. Then one afternoon he freezes with his mouth ajar and whispers. "Is it I who cannot speak, or the others who are unable to listen to me?" The closed mouth, a weight in the void, the hair resting on the wind, the clouds move. Then there is the land, a lot of land. Above, below, everywhere. Its branches sway, the leaves dance forced by the force of the wind, the roots are well planted up to the center of the earth. Every day he listens to the birds singing, the squirrels chasing each other, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. Children laugh, others cry sometimes. Some adults kiss there, in the shade of her hair. The answer comes like a blizzard. It is others who are unable to listen.
What I remember most from that day is that the walls of the building were cold and white.
It was as if someone had recently cleaned them with bleach and now the smell permeated everything. At first I thought it was a dream, since certainly everything that happened was far from the concepts of reality and rationality.
The first thing I remember is waking up and touching my forehead.
It was cold. Bizarre, given the heat that reigned in the room. I can almost see myself now as I take off my jacket and place it on the floor, gazing in surprise at the four walls I was within. What I saw immediately was the silver door handle. It was inviting, yet something made me hesitate when I caressed the idea of walking towards it. So I turned around and discovered a slightly open window behind me: I could have easily passed through it and slipped under it, since a garbage can was ready to sweeten my descent.
There was no sign of life or movement in the room. It was still and silent. It could only be a dream.
I went to the handle and lowered it, finding the metal as hot as the temperature that prevailed in the room. The door opened and I found myself in a long corridor, also white. On the ceiling some lights flickered in pain, casting a heavy atmosphere over the entire tunnel.
And there was silence, and nothing but silence.
Slipping between those immaculate walls I perceived everything as confused and unreal.
I was constantly passing in front of other doors, but none of them I was able to open. Some of the handles dropped, yes, but only up to a point. None of the mechanisms ever clicked completely. Behind some of them I sometimes perceived sounds whose nature was not entirely clear to me, but every time my voice rang out to try to establish contact, nothing returned to answer me. I felt the palms of my hands sweaty from the grip of nervousness, and every sound I made ended up breaking irremediably before the end of a sentence. I was starting to feel like in one of those nightmares where you find yourself alone somewhere and although there is no apparent reason to be afraid or threatened you can't help but walk with your heart pounding and your skin goose.
Door, after garden, after door.
Each immaculate rectangle followed one another without an apparent end.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
I was alone and wandered lost in those corridors.
With waves of panic becoming harder and harder to ignore, I began to wonder if I would really be able to return to that room with the window open. I tried to turn around a couple of times and I'm more than sure I paid close attention to which direction I was taking (or at least I think) but it seemed there was no way to find it. Yet, there was always a part of me that insisted that there was no reason for me to worry in that way, that it was more than evident that everything I was experiencing was not real. From one moment to the next I would have become fully aware of it and then I would have woken up soaking wet to find myself in my room, in my dormitory. I would have heard my roommate intent on sipping one of those disturbing films of his ... or I would have found him already snoring loudly in the bed next to mine, and then there would have been no way for me to go back to sleep.
I repeated all these things to myself over and over again - and in a small way they managed to give me courage - but when I found myself at the top of a flight of stairs and breathing suddenly became more difficult that mere comfort was no longer able to impose itself on that restlessness visceral.
The lower floor was immersed in darkness.
Perhaps I had arrived at the basement, perhaps in that part of the building there was no electricity. Was it really the case that I tried to find a rational solution? It was just a dream, after all.
I walked slowly down the steps, but once I got to the landing, once I was ready to take the last flight, I was forced to stop again.
A sound of footsteps came just below me as I walked up the steps to the lower floor.
Rationality fell silent and instinct took over. Dream or reality, I turned and retraced the road until I came up again in the silent corridor, desperately trying to put as much distance as possible between me and that one sound.
The footsteps continued their advance behind me, and always in my direction.
No matter how fast I moved, the noise held my head and the stride matched mine. When I was forced to stop to catch my breath, the mysterious pace slowed in turn and returned to pace, but never stopped ringing.
In the end, overcome by terror and anguish, I stopped my flight to try to grab one of the metal handles again: I shook the door and tried to trigger the mechanism with firm blows, but it didn't help.
"Hey there..."
A voice rose suddenly from behind the door.
"Hey! Will you hear me? Can you hold the porthole?" I pleaded without ever ceasing to try and, indeed, you are encouraged by that sudden contact. I got no other answer.
The footsteps behind me had come close.
Too close.
I started running again.
Whenever I was sure I had put enough distance between me and those footsteps again I tried whatever handle I could grab. At each attempt I was greeted by that apparently innocent and familiar nod.
"Hey there..."
Something was wrong.
Oh, that was what I said was wrong with that fucking place!
If I'm ready with that futile attempt of mine and given it some of my only goal, I'll only return the verse in which mine was awakened. Now even without my approaching I could hear the whispers originating from behind the doors.
"Hey there..."
"Hey there..."
And I pass.
The footsteps never left me.
On the other hand, they had come closer and closer, as if they were aware of the goal I had set for myself. And yet, somehow, that sound still frightened me less than those whispers behind those immaculate doors. Behind each of them had to be an individual, an individual that my footsteps certainly alerted to my presence.
So why did each of them just greet me in the same way, as if to consolidate my presence in that surreal place?
Why would none of them open the door for me?
How could they not catch the terror in my voice, the plea, the desperation that transpired?
I continued my run ignoring their every greeting.
Each of them had a different voice.
There was a moment when I distinctly heard the creaking of a door that opened shortly after I passed in front of it, but I never turned around or slowed my pace. Maybe I already knew within me that it would do no good, or maybe a part of me instinctively felt something that continued to fuel the flame of my survival instinct.
In front of me the contours of a wide open door were finally outlined, just as my pace was beginning to slow down and the possibilities of escape were beginning to fade from the field of possibilities. It had to be the door I first came out of!
I entered without hesitation and, slamming the door behind me, I locked the lock.
The voices in the corridor could somehow still reach me, teasing me with their one greeting repeated over and over again.
"Hey there..."
"Hey there..."
"Hey there"
This time I didn't think about it too long: I reopened the window and walked through it, sliding myself under. Once my feet were on the asphalt, I ran out of the alley and poured into the nearest street.
The street was deserted and the sky was dark.
I started walking.
For a while, I didn't meet anyone, except for a couple who whispered thickly. Another couple of blocks and my cell phone rang. It was my roommate's number.
"Hey man, since you're still out could you get me a couple of things?"
I didn't answer. I hung up and continued my wandering.
There had to be something around there, something so abnormal and surreal that it gave me proof that it was just a dream! Something so absurd and irrational that it would have definitely convinced me, allowing me to wake up ...
The phone began to shake and rang again:
“Hey, don't hang up on my face, it's not nice. Come on, I'm studying and I need a couple of energy drinks to keep me awake! I don't have time to go and buy them ... and I always do you this kind of favors when you ask me! "
"Danny?"
"What's wrong with you? Will you get me a couple of drinks or not? "
The voice sounded like his ... was it really possible?
"All right, all right. The blue ones, right? "
Actually Danny hates the blue ones. And I was so sure that the one at the other end of the line would have nothing to complain about. Who would have consented, not realizing anything ...
Instead there was a pause and Danny sounded irritated:
“No, you know I don't drink the blue ones. Just get me a Punched and a Juiced. You can find them at that corner shop, a couple of blocks from here. "
"Ok"
Only when I hung up did I realize, looking around, that I still had no idea where exactly I was. To tell the truth, I still wasn't sure if I was really in a ... real place.
I decided to do another test and dialed my girlfriend's number, who answered almost immediately. I had a short conversation with her where she told me something about one of her friends who recently broke up with a guy. I hung up more confused than before.
If I was really ... does that mean that building ...?
Now I can't explain what prompted me to do it. I only remember a very unpleasant sensation that tightened my stomach as I somehow tried to retrace my steps, trying to understand from which direction I had come and, above all, to find the building from which I had fled.
And, believe it or not, I walked for hours along those practically deserted streets, but I never found him. Perhaps the panic and terror had prevented me from mentally recording some key details that would allow me to distinguish it. I even went so far as to consider the possibility that I had been somehow drugged, and that what I had experienced were nothing more than the side effects of some substance.
Finally, exhausted and defeated, I let rationality prevail again: I called a taxi and let myself be dropped off in front of the shop where I bought the energy drinks for Danny, adding one for me too. Who knows, perhaps with the excuse of taking a break and having a drink together I would have had an opportunity to nonchalantly explain to my roommate what kind of experience I had had and why I had sounded so dazed on the phone when he contacted me ...
When I finally returned to the door of our dormitory I had come to the conclusion that we might as well let go of everything. I didn't have an explanation, of course, but it seemed that there was no way to answer my questions, at least for now. What mattered was that I was able to get h"Hey there..."
For the next three weeks, at the strangest times, I always got the same call.
Sometimes it happened when I was waiting for a call from a friend, or when I just picked up my cell phone. Each time I heard nothing but that one word, again and again.
I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that day, or the terror and anguish that that innocent greeting still conveys to me today.
I had an open window in front of me. I could have left right away.
Instead, I thought it was just a dream, so I started wandering around the entire building. Convinced that nothing was real, that nothing could really harm me.
I will never forgive myself for not simply escaping, made stupidly bold by the mistaken certainty of actually being under the covers, safe from everything ...ome, and that I wasn't going to be alone.
A call told me that Danny must have gotten impatient from waiting. I answered ready to apologize.
I often stay staring at the sky while I’m in the car or just when I’m walking around. I look at the sky because from there my mind opens and makes me reach the sea of stars on the expanse of salty, clear water, full of star reflections. It reminds me of winter evenings, when with very few degrees I was short-sleeved on the beach taking pictures. As I looked at the immensity of the sky, I imagined people who, like me, looked at nothing like a dreamer. I imagined people looking at the stars immersed in black to return home or as they looked out on the balcony or the bedroom window with a cigarette between their lips or a steaming cup, and in taking their time to think, they lost themselves looking at the sky with eyes and heart full of anger or sadness, letting oneself be engulfed in the bubble leaving the world outside, and who knows, maybe we are all astronauts but with the fear of leaving the earth and entering the darkness of the universe among the planets and the stars.In my head there is an empty room for you, a glass of wine and a book of poems that I would have liked you to read, a comfortable sofa and a window on the roof to observe the shapes of the clouds, to watch yourself while you are busy looking for the constellations. From time to time I go back to that room, to bring fresh flowers and open that window, to breathe a little. I sit on the sofa with my knees to my chest and read that book, slowly sipping the wine, you know I like to savor things, but then I get up and lock that door, at least three turns, to think about it before opening it. Your place remains and will always remain, but I won’t let you in anymore. I will no longer give you the keys if you fill a seat only to then leave, leave a groove on the sofa and the goblet only half full. In my heart there is a room, certainly small and closed, there is not a window or a book. But there are blank sheets to write on, to fill with complicated ideas, that room is certainly more challenging, everything you write head, the page cannot go blank, you cannot leave without this room undergoing changes, everything will not return in perfect order as before, so I rarely let anyone in. A breath of wind will not take away your perfume, it will not go away, just as your memory will not and maybe neither will you. I got you stuck between these lines and a veil of nostalgia, if you enter the life of a writer it is inevitable to stay on a sheet.
When I was younger: I would put my arms in the shirt and tell people that I had lost my arms. I restarted the game every time I knew I was going to lose. I slept with all the stuffed animals like a baby so none of them got offended. I had that 4-color pen, and I was trying to push buttons at once. I poured the soda into a lid and shaken it as if I were making small glasses. the hardest decision was choosing which nintendo game to play. I waited behind a door to scare someone, then I left because it took too long to get out or I had to pee. I pretended to be asleep so I could be carried to bed. I thought the moon was following my car. I watched two drops of water slip on the window and pretended it was a race. I used to go to the computer just to use paint. the only thing I had to worry about was the tamagotchi. the only ‘false’ friends I had were the invisible ones. I sang in the shower. (now? now I take some life choices down there). I ingested some fruit seeds and was scared to death that a tree would grow in my belly. I peeled my knees which healed better than a broken heart. I remember when we were kids and couldn’t wait to grow up. what the hell were we thinking about?
They will think you fell
That you are in pieces, broken, fractured
And maybe maybe
Destroyed
They will think you will need help
But they won't come to help you anyway
Maybe they will feel sorry
Don't care
Never give explanations
To those who do not ask questions
Who doesn't care
To those who do not seek it
They will think of you as weak, fragile
Not suitable for a life like this
Not suitable for clashes
Not eligible to be first
Never heal yourself
Whose eye
He doesn't have a hand
Ready to give everything
They will think you fell
And instead
You're just looking at the sky
It was dark outside. I was getting changed to go out for dinner. I was almost in front of the window, because the mirror was between the two windows. Suddenly a red light out there grabs my attention. He is standing in the middle of the trees. I remain motionless. I know he is watching. He doesn’t want me to forget what happened, our years together, our perverse bond. He doesn’t want me to forget anything like he does. But he does it in a manic way. He keeps the memories of every second, every minute and every hour of his life in his inner filing cabinet. I rearrange my dress. I know he wants to see me shaken but I have to act like he’s not there. His love was not. It was control. I had the power but he wanted to control me from below. He now wants to see if I live happy. But he knows that I cannot be happy neither with him nor without him. The razor’s edge of our story was metal and dangerous. But he couldn’t imagine that I was really different from the others. What was dark in me he hadn’t seen well. This had been his failure. A Dark Lady is not that easy to spot and he hadn’t been able to grasp the details. When he realized he had lost the future with me it was already too late, I had decided his destiny and I had closed my heart forever. I was there, in my house, ate, went out, smiled and lived. He was there in the dark, without money and without a life. He was trying to still exist, to exist for me. Instead I existed for myself and I had broken his game. I had discovered his bluff. He no longer ate, no longer had a home, no longer had friends. He only had me. He lived only for me. Every night he stood there in that darkness that had created between us. And he saw me living without him. Sometimes I left the window closed. Sometimes I opened the curtains. I knew that his only life was there in my daily nothingness. His goal had always been to destroy me inside. Destroy my vital spark. But he couldn’t know about my destroying Demon. His was a fiction. But mine was real. By the time he realized the power of my mind, everything had already vanished from his hands.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 