This is an evening like many others, torn in a winter that freezes well pages of the diary. Paola does not write, but a puff of a hundred or more pages written to tell a part of life lived long ago. Law without following a logical sense, munching pastry words almost no desire or intent. But one thing has already understood. Love is in the same every age. When the blue sky rumbled armored airplanes and the sounds of nature were too strong for the human voice, when you walk on my shoes and chewed holes in the yellow dust of the streets, when he was alive in the cold or sun burned skin without irritating , then as now was love. Ruthless.
was during the war. Too few could write and read those parts, and the men were due to leave for combat. What he wrote was called Mary Grace, a woman of about thirty, semi-educated and who were asked to send short love letters to soldiers of war. Is dictated them to him, just, including errors of diction. You, fat and ugly now already in there over the years having the time, he had nowhere to send their love, or near or far, because it lends itself without batting an eye, behind the fee of a few francs, with dozens of girls who came in droves, there were those who said all excited, even those in despair, but most had little interest in the fate of their husbands or boyfriends, and let the tube poet penned some verses of boring rite for all the same. The Germans regularly settle out of the country, and these foreigners blond and tall red lips, looking for warmth and tenderness between the legs of single women. Married or not.
Maria Grazia knew it and, in the pages of the diary, you could discover all kinds of intrigue ... she, meanwhile, continued with its office and wrote the now indifferent to what was very clear. Lacks a clear interest in the varied vicissitudes of loving fellow villagers, steeped in reality a complex feeling of envy that are transformed, needless to say, in a black sadness hidden pain inside himself. The poor woman was, in short, an erupting volcano that would be enough only a small gesture of love to explode. His only distraction were those diary entries, they now reluctantly Paola law, convinced that they understand so well already as we live and love. Why Paola, almost like Mary Grace, is a champion of women's disillusionment and disappointment, we realized this. Now back to that second night, free from the nagging demands of other women, writes a fictional love. It must have been blond and tall red lips like a typical German, you'd think, but no. It 's a bit short, stocky and black ... well, ugly using the usual parameters of aesthetics today. But the poor woman was too ugly, and he knew it. For this she was alone, not to mention the complete lack of charm of which he was totally unaware of being able to forge. Imagine writing to a soldier, yes, but poor sad and utterly devoid of grace as she is. They met in its imagination, and obviously loved each other like crazy. When he had to leave to go to war, Maria Grazia wrote passionate letters and disturbing, very different from the sentences that were sent dull, really, to other men. Unfortunately, the letters of Mary Grace, so true and overflowing passion, remained in the diary, paper and attached to its senses on.
Paola law now a bit 'bored, but sincerely disappointed and disheartened by this woman who did nothing but wish for a little' love. Yawning while turning the pages, until the expression on his face turns into genuine interest.
Man Maria Grazia they wrote, something in his life had changed completely. And for the better. The tone was cheerful and a male name appeared often in his words. Albert, Albert, Albert ... someone had discovered a man and, finally, started to love it seriously. But the last leaves are still different, because the paper knot between the fingers of Paola and the ink is smudged. These are traces of tears, those. Paola recognizes well. Know which has the consistency of paper when it absorbs the salt of the pain. It almost feels the noise, that of dormant and swallowed sobs not to be heard. The sound of solitude without hope.
And so, Maria Grazia, in the end went wrong. But I bet almost Paola.
* * GiorgiaM
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