My dearest,
you know the sadness you sometimes wake up with. That sadness
which wraps you like a shroud and doesn’t allow you to see beyond yourself. Today is one of
those days. You would only like to stay alone even if, probably, being with
other people, is the best thing to shake the sadness off yourself.Life goes on, time goes by relentlessly and you live or, better to say, you look at the life passing by, without having the courage to change yourself. I am annoyed, I am fed up with not having the courage to change. In these days everything shuts, even the desire of crying is blocked, locked inside, and you would only wish to sleep, but to sleep is not enough, it is never enough! You would wish to push away the people who love you and stay alone, sometimes their love chokes you. The absolute loneliness is what you want, almost like you were ashamed to live and you would like to be invisible, a ghost lurking in the world of the living beings. This is what you see if you stop and try to look at what is beyond the shroud that wraps you up. You feel a powerful force inside your chest that would will to come out but it doesn’t and, little by little, wears you out. I remember that summer night on the wharf, sipping our red wine. In that exact moment I realized that you too, sometimes, feel the same. It is difficult to get rid of that powerful force, maybe, only a mother who hugs you could be able to do it, when you are still a child, but now that mother is not here anymore. She is not here anymore for us grown-ups who have to live our lives as adults.
Letting ourselves being helped by the people
who love us could help,somehow, but that force which strangles us prevents us
from doing so. I know what I should do and yet I am not able to do it. I wish I
could cry. I cannot. When I was a child I used to cry a lot and crying was so
restorative, so useful. I remember myself locked inside the bathroom, hours
after hours, or at night under the sheets before falling asleep. Somehow I very
much liked to cry. I liked the sensation
I used to feel after crying. It was like having rest after a hard physical
work. I felt empty of anguish, somehow more serene and quiet, sort of
a virtual mother who cradled me, even if I was alone, actually. In these days I would like to cry for the same reason,
to create a hole in the shroud which tightens me up like a straightjacket. I
would like to scream and I cannot, I would like to break everything and I
cannot, I would like to tell the world: “let me do whatever I want!”. What do
I want? To say “I want to feel good” it is not enough. I know that it is me
who has to lead my own life but I do not know how.
Sometimes listening to
the others is a good thing because they know what does good to you. They will
tell you the same things you yourself would tell a dear friend you love, and
yet you don’t follow their advice.
I’m about to blow up, more and more this
ugly force is screaming inside myself, like a monster who wants to tear me apart, a devil with red eyes
spitting fire, who scratches your own flesh and drinks your own blood. Silence,
maybe the silence makes me understand what is happening these days. If only I
could have a little silence like right now, to vomit all that I have got
inside. But nobody is listening.
Can
writing be like that easing weeping? Not anymore, not now. When you think about
happy people you feel envy, and pain at the same time. Pain, because you know
that nothing was given them by chance. We were not born happy, we become happy.
Happy people have built their own happiness. Enjoying a sunset, enjoying
nature, enjoying the silence reading a book, is a very simple thing that can
give happiness. Maybe in the past, yes maybe, I felt that happiness but for
ages it hasn’t happened anymore. Sure, there are moments, sort of flashes, but
they don’t last long.
Sometimes
it is like I am living a double life. One life lives inside myself, a life I
hide from everybody, a life I live with my own thoughts. People who know me can
just feel a hint of it, like if someone lived inside myself in another
dimension they are not allowed to go. They feel it but they don’t know what it
could be, like listening to a ghost speaking a foreign language they don’t
understand. From the outside acts the so-called real life. But which one is the real life? The life that everybody can
see and interpret or the other one? It is a continuous fight. Which one will be
the winner?
It
is so difficult to express sensations using words. Sometimes writers succeed,
those who are very good at it, but above all the painters. In a painting they
can describe pain, anguish, happiness, love. Nevertheless, those are again
sensations, nobody will ever know what the painter was feeling at the moment he draw the lines and put on the
colors. Again it is impossible to enter inside that inner dimension.
I
don’t even know why I am writing these words. I would like somebody to listen
to me even if he can’t understand me. A few minutes ago I thought it was
necessary, now I realize that these words are incomprehensible even to myself.
Nevertheless I want you to listen to them even if you don’t understand.For sure you will feel a sensation
and this means a lot to me. Destiny made us meet and at the same time put a
barrier between us two, the distance. We don’t know whether this is a good or a
bad thing, we can’t judge it. For sure you can
understand, at least partially, my words which seem absurd and crazy but which
are not.
