I looked at the photo of a friend sitting in the company of a stranger in a Sardinian rock somewhere. Wearing a short tee dark bare arms and rests on his knees. He smiles and hugs him a bag of black leather. He smiles and his arms glow in soft and freshness. I seem to feel the breath of fresh island breeze, I imagine the smell of wild and humidity of the rock on which they decided to rest. I remember the freedom of those arms, and mine.
So, while me my heart, take the instinct to stop the tears. I close the image on your computer and open a web link that takes me back to an endless stream of movies. I decide to start a title from unreadable, directed by Franco Battiato. Frank Sinatra the singer? Be that as it is pretty stupid, too quiet. A woman who appears to the director or screenwriter lives his life in solitude. Echo the noises of everyday activities, by taxi it takes to go home, to yoga class that does not make sense so it makes me a nervous, eating dinner alone in a house absurdly large and modern. An American company, made for people who want to live in the multitude.
sounds the alarm for 7 and I get up from this chair is too hard and uncomfortable that keeps me company for three years now. I get up because I'm hungry, and although it is not my habit, I decided to have breakfast. But, as I walk, I see a pile of shirts thrown into the floor, close to the first rung of the ladder leading to the ground floor, so remember that at least I've got to do. All in all it's useful, it has always to do. You know, a shirt ... maybe you can inspire a button bobbing like your life, or a thread that runs from the tissue impertinent as your man, maybe a spot tenacious and persistent that reminds you of yourself. Everything leads to a metaphor, just grasp it.
The first thing to do, however, put the clothes in the washing machine before my fellow occupying the bathroom to wash and go to work. A language of thought touches the hassle of work on Saturdays, but then returns to his quiet place, the palate of consolation, as I remember that after all was worse than me when I was working on Saturdays and holidays. Every day and night. I fill the washing machine and go back to pick up the pile of jeans. How many are. So when I think of my grandmother, and grandmothers of others, went to the river to wash clothes. A when they were forced to use the ashes of a substance and can not remember the name to remove the stain of urine from clothing of their fathers, brothers and husbands and children then. Often the committee had to wash for the other families, perhaps to earn a penny, or more likely to make some favor ... when everything was based on giving to receive, although it was much harder, it was altogether too simple. Now, without money you can not do anything. Now almost does not let you save more than making you work from you, because risk your safety and your life. I say it is not fair, is not correct, not human. The rules are necessary because they can live respect for others, but when these are too many, you may live in a cage by the bars of glass which does not seem to be. But always cage.
As for the second time I go down the stairs, known that the green plant is the third step down from agony. I remember him put the water, yesterday ol'altrieri. Or three days ago. It is also true that during the winter, water it once a month with no consequences, but now we are in summer and summer's here is suffocating. Dry branches and soft touch the step above, surrounded and partly hidden by the strong and fresh. I believe it is necessary to remove diseased branches because now no longer living.
Check the bathroom and washing machine active, noting that the bin in which you pour the water softener is free for a few days ago. Evidently hath been adjusted by myself. Open the refrigerator to get something to eat, but I find only two plastic bowls with candy bars that are made by the birthday party held last Saturday. It's also made plenty of other stuff, which is divided between friends and family who have wanted to accept it. The bars were ugly as gifts, are turned white due to the low temperature of the refrigerator. I take a piece and send him down without asking if it is dark or milk.
goes back to sit down at my computer and decided to open word, just to try. The disappointment is already aware: I can not think of anything to write, nothing fancy, no longer takes the internal language that speaks to me inside, even when I'm sad. Now, when I'm sad, I am also so angry that I could not think clearly. I am not able to get away from my emotions, totally absorb, so it's safe to say that they encompass me. Are completely obscured by my feelings, especially the negative ones. Good or bad, first, I could use them somehow making me inspired for small events, but now I'm fine if I do not think there is reason to tell if I'm wrong and I can hardly breathe.
few days ago I decided to do as a certain friend of the blog he writes very well and has already published a book, she recounts the events of calm, quiet, moments that can happen to anyone, and does so with consciousness. I mean ... are not really explain exactly how, I just know that she can write about a woman walking on the shore of the sea without turning it into a mad woman of passion or a thousand-headed monster or a child in about to kill his mother. I tried a few days ago, as I said, starting to tell a girl that is beautiful in front of the mirror of his old grandmother for about to meet the boy she is in love. Without describing the passion and ardor, sex, or hatred, resentment or martyrdom. A simple girl, very young, who may not know what the passion.
I continued grinding the mirror, making him bleed, stunning the girl who finally sleep ... sleep a life unlived, that her grandmother never knew that proves slaughtering unconscious.
You I would say, you write well, everyone has their own style. Or would you think that, very simply, I can not write. I'm not capable. Or I can not live, but maybe it's what I think.
fact is that the photo is everything. It contains what I lost, that I'll never have again.
* * GiorgiaM
