For trips like going to the pictures. If you browse the family album patiently built up over years pass before the eyes just pretty pictures: Trips, birthdays, parties, lunches, dinners, friends, fun, happy times, magical moments frozen in time. Turns the pages and think - but how many good times, as I was lucky, my life seems like a succession of joys seamless. " Not so, there is never anything in the round, including a photo and the other for me as for everyone, maybe you are past days and months and years with their load of worries, difficulties, illness, pain, only those that were not photographed, not in use. Also choose to leave alone for a long time to get back to the test, to go further in search of that inner autonomy that allows you to find your place anywhere, it is not always a walk. New places, museums, comparison with other, stimulating experiences, a great privilege indeed, but not all.
Some days grind km roads for anonymous and without memories and you will dry the tongue in your throat because you have no one to talk to, thank goodness there are dogs and cats around the neighborhood, a few words a caress, and we will run away forever. Do you miss the cinemino with friends, the burraco between a chat and the other, the lasagna is so good that the Navy, the phone rings, your child that sends itself to dinner with three friends at the last moment, always with a good morning smile of the gatekeeper Benjamin; come to think fondly even mist of your house with the hideous overpass via Monteceneri understood. I think it is nostalgia.
Solitude offers a lot of time to think. Some days you regret the agenda super full and running out of breath as then, to look after elderly parents, children, home, work and do everything necessary to travel. Struggling at times this freedom, so hard to win, so hard to fill a new direction.
I think that writing is a pleasure, an opportunity for sharing, but also a requirement of the deep, fills voids. There's nothing to do, you can go ten times around the world, but you carry with you. Perhaps Montaigne was very wise, he has never moved from his room, he thought there was no point, the trip has always done only within himself.
How did that song by Ornella Vanoni? 'S one of those days when you take the gloom and into the evening does not leave you more tomorrow ........ is another day, we'll see!
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