Last night, I had a dream. I dreamed of a man. He wasn’t really a man, he was rather a young man. Yes, he was a young man. I don’t remember his face. I only remember his eyes, large, clear, I don’t remember the nuance of the iris. Maybe they were green, or maybe blue … who knows what color those bright irises were painted? Certainly, I repeat, they were clear. I remember his hair. They were beautiful. They were wavy, brown, a dark brown, almost black. They painted the gray background of a winter’s day with those tongues of charred wood. I remember touching them. They were soft, softer than I thought. I had imagined them bristly, almost stringy. And instead, what was my surprise in knowing that they are soft and silky, almost water rubbed between my fingers. I remember caressing them, from root to tip, which barely touched his shoulders. They were long and neatly messy. They were so beautiful. I remember them very well. He wasn’t handsome, my young man. But he was attractive, as no Adonis can be. He had a voice… oh, what a voice! He modulated his words gracefully and muttered softly when I was close to him. I touched his hands. He had nice hands. The fingers were long, tapered, pianist’s fingers, as they say. The skin of those hands … You touch it. Oh, if I touched them… they were soft, like hair. They weren’t hot, but they weren’t cold either. They were warm, that sweet, subtle warmth that warms your soul and barely touches your heart. Sweet sound his words close to my ear, as he murmurs …


When I was a little girl I thought that one of the fortunes that I would have liked to have happened to me would have been that of being ataraxic. I was 17, suffering from my eternal teenage crush and it seemed to me that not feeling anything was the solution to all my problems. Growing up obviously I realized how stupid what I thought was. Not feeling anything is a little excessive if the only thing you want is to avoid the pain of unrequited love. However, marked by the thing, like every other human being on this planet or maybe even a little more, I fell back into the same mistake, falling in love, suffering and repeating the same scene with flashes of happiness in the middle.

Always as a young man, but with a few more years, I had only one thing clear: to the question what you wanted from life, I replied that I just wanted to be happy, thinking that it was also a fairly simplistic answer. Everyone was looking for a future of professional satisfaction and the like, while I didn't care how, but it was enough that I was happy. Yes, it was simplistic, but for different reasons. Being happy is perhaps the hardest thing that can be achieved, precisely because it is not achieved. There is no formula to be happy, there are no steps to achieve, it is just a matter of accepting and accepting what the present where we live is every day, facing the negative moments and thanking for the positive ones. Yes, I know, it's a bit of a religious pamphlet style, but I really think it is.

This is where the problem lies though. I'm far from accepting whatever is happening to me in life. I do not accept anything, professionally, sentimentally and not even about myself. I reject everything about myself with an almost ancestral detachment. I can't get rid of this heaviness, this sense of uselessness for everything that happens in the world and to myself. If everything is useless, it is also useless to try, to commit, to get angry.

Only the emotions remain. The regret, the bile in the stomach, the sadness. I feel squeezed between the sense of helplessness and the anger of not even having tried, hanging from a thread woven by myself and holding the scissors, with the temptation to cut and fall, but without ever doing it, perhaps out of cowardice, perhaps because despite all the waste in the world I still have some hope, looking at the photos of the past and not cutting them.
I'm patient on the verge of stubbornness and maybe that's what I care about. I am too patient, I am here and I wait, I can not do anything else, I wait for the bright Leviathan.

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