CAra Ester,
I like the sad, unsolved, rational and brilliant, elusive ones. My latest stories J, m, o, p: they all seem children of the same father. Indeed: of mine. My father is like that.
Although he recognizes this, since I am an adult and I am also taking a path, I know I am truly Lucifer with the doctorate who perseveres in the path of evil, since I go out of one ‘last story that then exploded in my hands, leaving me confusedly with beautiful words but alone and in the midst of a deaf pain, but also stupid.
I think I have very high expectations, Little sense of reality and a great myopia. I don’t know if admitting it I redeem me, but I think not indeed.
I do not recognize some common elements except not only at the end, when then I find myself dented and crumpled. It makes me tremendously pissed off with myself this care of mine.
Each time, I end up forgiving myself.
It is almost afraid to say it, but I think I can’t even imagine a different man for me: one who really laughs, who dedicates himself with passion to what he does, who is present in the body and heart.
I know they exist. I see them. And they intimidate me.
I perceive them too beautiful, too lively, too much for me, in fact they are with others.
As if the only part of me that can be seen, loved, recognized … It was the one that knows how to survive alone in the folds of ambiguity, in an atypical presence.
I would like to learn to desire differently.
To breathe well in the desire itself.
You write that waiting is not something that is sitting.
You also say that at some point you have to be a little HR.
After this umpteenth sense of emptiness in which they give me, I repeat that I should recognize this void as space .. for acting that part that with so much dedication I don’t even recognize myself.
I thought I was doing it, I thought I had grown up .. but obviously I still have to do a lot of road.
Nothing I wanted to share it.
With affection,
M.
Ester Viola’s answer
Dear M.
Sometimes they meet them, they are in pairs, good, kind, polite. With brilliant, attentive, sharp, sweet conversation. And they have those hands gestures. That calm, that security. They are them, the best. And you tell you: why isn’t I? Because one could not have happened to me, where I am wrong, because I have not seen them.
Every now and then one falls there. And he thinks the world is divided into precise slices. The good on one side and far away, the bad guys on the other. A compass that works, and is made would be enough: you will say you to the excellent party, you choose one, and you are happy like this.
Then there is the old story that people are not as they seem, it does not remain the same, changes, brings out an unexpected ferocity (the vouchers) or a scratched sensitivity (the bad guys). And therefore again things turn upside down, disappoint you, they leave you strange. There is no way to understand people well, M. We are not made to know how to do it.
It improves a little with age, but nobody becomes a scientist. Here is an old summary:
The twenty years.
The twenty years are made to waste them, the only good thing you have in your head is the hair but you are convinced as the granite of being the best version of you. You are, in many respects. The meats are not yet short, you have the strength to make very late in the evening, memorize a thousand and two hundred pages every three months, manual of private law or anatomy, studies without suffering too much and I spend a lot of time choosing perfect jeans because you think jeans are the fundamental thing of the wardrobe and the one that is better for you.
Above all, you are ready for your sparkling life, the one that will begin around twenty -six years old, when – you will have ended practice and apprenticeships, and the world will deliver you a very laid salary, car, owned house, love and family.
Nothing leverages you from your head, you have the energies to do it and you will do it. You appear your best friend of high school, Giuseppina, who at sixteen had already put herself with the son of the notary of Ceppaloni, a harmless boy and without salt. At twenty -two he then thought of marrying him, that cod, ending his studies while choosing confetti for the favors.
Love at twenty years admits few compromises: either you try everything or is not good. Penare, not being able to sleep eating studying, no matter, it is worth every sacrifice, without limits, everything comes to those who know how to wait and the unrequited long love will be even more beautiful. In exchange for this, no mortgage is guaranteed to you, flashes of happiness, unforgettable quarters of an hour when a little on the other side reciprocate feelings. Enough of you. Meanwhile, Giuseppina is increasingly painful. Take her around during the congresses with friends where for the most of the time you talk about who had to call and do not call (1995-2001), who had to write and do not write (2001-2015), who always looks at the stories and comments on me but we never leave (2016).
Thirty years old.
You also made a master but the world is not giving you the world. Really forty meters in Milan, can they only afford them dad’s children? With what courage, the real estate agent says that this kennel in the semi -periphery is graceful?
Here everything is missing and also love: these thirty years are only a postdated adolescence, as maturity.
But in the end it’s okay, there is time. Our parents at our age were already chained and we instead freedom. It is true that we are always on social networks – sometimes to do the fools and sometimes we are not stupid, we make the inclusive battles for the correct use of the pronouns.
Giuseppina every now and then we look at it on Instagram. Now he is the accountant, at least so he says. That furniture of her husband, the notary’s son, became a notary too. He bought a boat, the villa was not enough, she already moved to Capri in May with the two children and the babysitter. He always has a sad face. For how many Chanel you own, you will always be a poor man who has married for convenience. Not like me who still look for true love.
I admit that the research of true love do a little water. People write chats but apart from writing chats it doesn’t proceed. What do I do some brilliant conversations? I reread me? It is a life that I feel intelligent, enough. Maybe Giuseppina was not wrong. I send her a message. He replies immediately, that cute. Hi, but how long! Why don’t you come to Capri one of the next weekends?
Come on, we have fun, the children are with the nanny!
The forty.
Twenty years have passed since you had twenty and you allowed yourself to change a little idea
on love.
1. Nothing is created and everything turns into habit. It was not true that the skipful loves, the undecided ones, those for a long time then they then become beautiful. You can find them with scattered seams
from the effort to pull them. Destroyed by the force (too much) with which you wanted them. You noticed that love is
made of another substance, you don’t know what, but it certainly includes holidays together, Netflix, and
“Milk is missing, pass to the Esselunga”. You have one of those relationships made for adults.
2. You were thus convinced that all the nostalgia of the future would have been dedicated to a long desired love. Instead, love has nothing to do with it, all the accidents are for yourself. The lost time. He always regrets the same thing: the fact of having had love between his feet when he served to do himself for things that had nothing to do with that love.
In Capri you’ve never gone. The son of the notary of Ceppaloni found himself another. They leave each other. It is true that the clerics also betray. Giuseppina asked me if I take the practice of separation. It doesn’t seem too desperate to me.
Is the substance of love in this story? Isn’t anyone right?
So M. are really cases, circumstances, can’t we do much? The best or worst people do not exist, does it depend on the years? How do things go go? Fabbri del Destino yes, but are they also needed Fortunelli joints? Do you need to resist? Do you need not to be afraid to go? Do you need to get tired of yet another time? Yes. You read it Happy happy by Yasmina Reza? We do this, read it to the sea and resent in September.
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