Ti regalerò una rosa
Una rosa rossa per dipingere ogni cosa
Una rosa per ogni tua lacrima da consolare
E una rosa per poterti amare
Ti regalerò una rosaIf I asked you, straightforwardly: "DO YOU BELIEVE IN SIGNS?"
What would you say?
I'd tell you that I didn't. I stubbornly avoided it. I consistently tried not to see. I called it random. I called it coincidences. I called it serendipity.
Now I'm not too sure anymore. Maybe they are there for us to see. Supernatural hint? Or maybe a not-too-intrusive way of telling us "hello? can't you see? it's right in front of you!"
There are signs everywhere...
[f.r.i.]
Open your eyes...
i see my memories in black and white
they are neglected by space and time
i stored all my days in boxes
i left my wishes so far behind
i find my only salvation
in playin' hide and seek in this labyrinth
and my sense of connection
is lost like the sound of my steps
[elisa]
"There are as many paths to love as there are people to love.
Barriers to understanding melt when you receive someone in this light."
Flying home has its good and bad parts. It reminds me of how much I used to love airports, the only place (I always thought) where people of all nationalities come in contact without conflict, without the need to eliminate each other. If only the outside world could be as civilized as the airport terminals... It reminded me of how nice it is to walk to the windows at the very back of the aircraft, and enjoy the sight of approaching land, after flying over Greenland and that patch of Atlantic Ocean that separates it from the British Isles. Today, passing over Wales, I could see the sea below, flat and apparently still, gently rippled by the wind even if it seem carved in bluish stone. There were tiny white stripes on it, where small boats were passing. and again white lines at the coast, where the waves crash on the sand. A bit more inland, the sun reflected on the lakes and rivers, transforming them into a gently shimmering silver web of lines and puddles decorating the green surface. And what about the sight of the clouds below, looking a vast display of chunks of whip cream? (unfortunately I did not have my camera, and regretted it). It was a bit past 9 pm local time when we approached the airport in Italy (MIL) and the sunset was leaving its last strands of orange/pinkish sky, drawing gorgeous colorful borders on the few clouds.
But being at home also carries a bittersweet taste. Don't get me wrong, I love to see my family, but the poetry of the trip is best left for the flight and the magical sights it unveils. Every time I come home, I can't help but feel out of place. I spend 10 months out of 12 living somewhere else, and I think (fear) that after a while I started becoming someone else as well, at least as far as part of my "italianness" is concerned. I can't quite put my finger on the reason, but as a special person once told me, every time I come here I feel like a foreigner in my own country.
I'll just make the best of it for the next two months. I'll have the chance to see friends I haven't seen in a while, meet friends coming from overseas, visit relatives, bike through town (yes, I will take pics, I promised I would!), and eat lots of mommy-food. It will be good, I know it will. But all it's positiveness will not erase that tingling feeling of not belonging anymore.
Of not belonging anywhere.
C'est pas que j'ai le cœur à rire
Je l'aurais plutôt à mourir
De les voir si joyeux
De les voir si heureux
Moi qu'aucune homme ne regardera jamais dans les yeux
De les voir convoler
De les voir s'envoler
Au milieu des étoiles sous la voûte des cieux
Toutes les cloches que je sonne
Kyrie Eleison
Hosanna alléluia dies irae dies illa
Toutes ces cloches de malheur
Toutes ces cloches de bonheur
Toutes ces cloches qui n'ont jamais encore sonné pour moi
Aveva a che fare con la serenità e con la speranza. Tutto quello che cerchiamo, no? Un posto nel mondo da cui non desiderare di andare via, qualcosa di bello alle porte, ma più bello ancora mentre lo immaginiamo, accucciati in quel luogo che, se siamo fortunati, è un abbraccio. Romantico? Io? Nei giorni dispari. Ma so contare solo fino a uno. I progetti a medio termine mi affaticano, quelli a lungo non li considero. Non mi sono mai aspettato molto da me stesso, non avevo la pazienza per farlo. E' venuto fuori che ho già fatto più di quanto mi sarei mai potuto attendere se mi fossi messo lì, alla stazione delle illusioni, ad aspettare il treno che passa una volta sola. Credo ai passaggi circolari. Prima o poi, anche i treni tornano. Sono trenini giocattolo, la rotaia va in tondo. Siamo seri, stiamo giocando.
[Gabriele Romagnoli]
(It had to do with tranquility and hope. That’s all we look for, no? A place in the world from where we never want to leave, something beautiful at your door, that looks even better while we imagine it, nestled in that place which, if we’re lucky, is a warm hug. Romantic? Me? Only on odd days. But I can only count to one. Mid-term projects wear me out; I don’t even consider long-term ones. I never expected much from myself, I wasn’t patient enough. It turned out I already did more than I could expect for myself even if I had sat there, at delusion station, waiting for the once-in-a-lifetime train. I believe in circular motion. Sooner or later, even trains come by again. They're toy trains; the track's a circle. Let’s be serious, we’re playing.)
it did backfire. not quite unexpectedly, but i guess one (i?) never stops hoping. i tried, at least i can say that. i feel abysmally stupid for even trying now, what did i think i'd accomplish? and it hurts, it's like being pushed under water and not given the chance to stock up on oxygen. being stabbed. strangled, rather. no other way to put it, unfortunately. it took a while to get to this point, to be able to forgive and try to give some relief to who had asked for forgiveness. i was so stupid to really, honestly, deeply think it was the right thing to do, that it was an act of civility to offer forgiveness, to offer a hand, that it was morally right. and what did i get? venom, recrimination, accusations, anger, jealousy, hatred.
then what's the point? now all this has accomplished is that it made me regret doing what i thought was right. made me regret trying. made me regret being what i am. and what is the point in trying to do well by people, in trying to be a decent human being, if all it brings is pain?
will i ever stop being so naive?
where did i go wrong?
which turn did i miss?
which gut feeling didn't i pursue?
which open window did i ignore?
why does it feel like i'm always too little too late?
why does it feel like i'm in the right place, but at the wrong time?
why does it seem like people trying to comfort end up saying the same (painful) things over and over?
I have offered forgiveness, and even though it feels like a brick has been lifted off my stomach (I profoundly despise grudges), I sincerely hope it doesn't backfire.
I just wish it'll offer relief, closure, hope, insight, to all the people involved.
If I could sit with you, if I could talk to you, if I could bring myself to look at you in the eyes without feeling the throbbing of the knife still comfortably lodged in my chest, I really don't know where I'd start from. There are just too many questions, too many unanswered uncertainties, and I know I'd open my mouth, attempt to speak, and the words would die in my mouth, sucked back down the throat by the grabbing, blood-soaked claws of pain swallowed for way too long.
I'd ask you why.
I'd ask you if caring about me really has to be so damn hard.
I'd ask you if your fear is so overwhelming that it can wipe away any attachment to me.
I'd ask you why you were never there to dry my tears.
I'd ask you if you ever even saw my tears.
Or heard my cries.
I'd tell you that, in spite of the pain, constant and piercing, I am unable to sever the invisible rope that ties me to you.
I'd tell you that there's not a single day in which I don't think of you, pray for your safety, or your happiness.
I'd tell you that there's not a single day in which I don't imagine your smile, hear the crisp, deep, familiar sound of your voice, see the shape of your hands.
Close your eyes and roll a dice
Under the board there's a compromise
If after all we only live twice
Which life’s the run road to paradise?
Don't say a word, here comes the break of the day
In white clouds of sand raised by the wind of the end of May
Ever experienced one of those days when you think "ok, this is it"? When you think you have reached your limit? When the glass is full and it's about to tip over? When you get to the closed door at the end of the hallway? When you reach the bottom of the hole?
And then you stop.
Breathe.
Once. Twice.
Realize that, in fact, all you need to do is dig deeper.
Open the closed door.
Pour some liquid out of the glass.
Move your limit a bit further down the path.
Keep going.
And enjoy the pleasure of discovering that, after all, you are stronger than you give yourself credit for.
