I don’t know if I could ever count love, because love as well is one of the thousand mind games we give ourselves the chance to play. In the past I wanted to play with you because I found it was leading me to new paths, tempting, and provocative. I discovered life through colours and scents, I built images and acquainted the microcosmi of people around me…and I left, and you were gone.
I returned to nature. The mother of everything, to look for you, to research. I hid in it, slipped in her miracles, enjoyed the life she gave me. I got lost smiling under the sun, looked for the moon but your eyes had stolen it. I forgot myself in distant beaches, I travelled to high mountain tops, where human touch is unobtainable and I took you with me as a thought, to carry, to grow up next to, to search for new depths, new skies. To run next to the waves, to risk again, to challenge my luck, to reach my edge. I am not looking for limits, I am creating ways to cross them, I search myself, I learn myself, I lose myself, I accept myself, I swear at it and find it all over again; and I am convinced that I haven’t seen nearly enough, the best are yet to come.
Moves need be quicker, more adroit, better aimed, more courageous. Survival strategies in a new world. I want you, if you still remember that. I am sure you do. I never asked you what you were waiting for; I just acted on my own instead, as I understood it and as I felt it. I never got over you, I just got used to your absence. I never forgot you; I just snubbed myself and never forgave me. I still trust my acts on the basis of an instant rationalistic thought, but what a fucking theory that is…
I remember a friend’s line warning me that when the wind of change blows, some built shelters and others windmills. I am here, but not there. I don’t want to turn back time, I want to live everything from the beginning in a game when not only is there no injury time but in which along with the rules we also stroke out the referee. There is never a need for foul or/and last whistle between us.
I hate the night. It emits a melancholy. I am starring all this time at a tiny moon from my window trying to understand why we have connected it with the dark. It emits such brightness that the human soul never will. I escape one trap and I fall in the next one, the bigger one, I am thinking. We will never say any of what we wanted to say, of what we should say. How can you talk about what you understood and did these years; about having lost your sleep and stayed behind? About how there were dawns when you were alone, shattered, on the street, while all your mates slept early? What is the point of saying you kissed a stray dog in the mouth on the day when you loved the whole world? Or that you have seen the water of your soul pouring though your worn out knees? That you had seen your dreams with your bare eyes and you have yet to overcome the shock?
To the mutilitation of the body when the bed orphans and the presence of someone else haunts your sadness with ghosts – images that have remained. They always come unanticipated and obstinate playing games with my own dreams. In periods of a catholic anorexia, I found a shelter on the way and within the abasement of my lonely dinner.
I was longing for what I desired but didn’t manage to have due to my idleness or the circumstances. That is why I like aimless wandering, writing, lack of conversant. Everything was outside of me. Then I stopped seeing. It wasn’t exactly dark; it was a peculiar light I had never seen before. My body’s quanta released.
This coterie doesn’t seem that terrifying after all. I felt I still had some distance to cover, some ford dragging me to something new. The old got lost; I was a bird, a fish without memory. I found myself in salty waters, transparent to the bone, a gulf and a sea, same salinity, same expanse. Unabashed, calm, eudemon, the field of the strong had depleted. This time was different from the rest and the fires of love blind. A war may look like a game when you’re a kid but love is the last barrier without rules before maturing.
In reality, you never came as many times as I passed through your haunts, you never picked up as many times as I pretended I called. Shame.
Love and death have the same anticipation. It’s just that they are not equally reliable.
There was a strange sun today that burnt my eyes. I was hoping for a rain, a flurry nothing more, just like the one inside me, barely to keep me quiet; a rain to wipe out what I feel, to wash out my sorrow, to clean me, to sanctify me. But mostly I wished for you, to always have a tailwind against your mast when outside of my world.
Some nights are without dawn and not even in this infinite time did we manage to meet with our truths and our wants yet again.
When will luck smile at me again, our life paths cross and find each other in the same dream opening the door wide to gaze at all this that we knavishly peek through a chink?
Some other nights are also without dawn and some dreams remain half to torture, hiding truths inside them, desires and passions that we try to exorcise via logic and ‘’musts,’’ not even letting them live in the same dream.
Surviving in ones own terms is a luxury, and lucky are the ones who can afford it.