An espresso to warm up a cold winter day.
A morning still young and clumsy.
So many, so different around, you breathe the sensation to be in a transparent bubble floating in a foreign universe.
At the end, this is the real condition we experience each single day, no matter where we are.
If this frantic collection of hours we find unexpected spots of personal strength and warm and we call them with various words: social relations, personal satisfaction, reason for living this life and so forth.
They change as the seasons change, sometimes smoothing, sometimes embittering their own print into our life.
Sometimes they slid away, collapse, crash or simply sunk in the deep waters of the world’s mediocrity and non sense.
We then leave these, all or just a part of those, to those who are still naive or lucky to believe or, all the more, to those who need such a collection of dreams to be alive.
The life needs to emerge, each day, from the calm water of the hollow.
Emerging as a fragile spring from the hardest rock you couldn’t believe to be so gentle and generous in giving you such a present.
And the life pulses and beats in this small creek of human emotions, tantalized and tortured and teased by the perception and desires we have about ourselves and the world around.
She comes in the early morning, waking you up with a warm embrace, smelling of spring and flowers from your youth now so far in time.
She comes in the night as well, when the dark knight of the uncertainty rides free in the milky realm of unwanted dreams, just on the borders with your own nightmares.
And yet it is the night sometimes that pays the tribute to the day, and gives him the real weight and importance when you recall simple fragments, chunks of words, and images and sensations, and rearrange all of them in a collage other than those you experienced in the life as it was.
And again and again, until the memory recedes and the borders are smooth and elastic and watery, and transparent.
The life is still there resembling the eyes of a child smiling to you while embracing a small black dog , jut out of the bakery in a cold morning.
And the smell of this espresso moves so many things in me and around me, I can only, simply, tell you it’s a part of the life as well.
A collection again, in the time, in the space.
Much more of this indeed, although not immediately visible, although not evident or clear.
Many times forgotten, many times neglected.
But still there.
Stories and novels, stories and shades of words. Sapphire can be a voice, a whisper, a night talk. Colours in words, words merged and melted with pictures. Words as colours, words as shapes sometimes overlapping with the visual experience. A different way to see the world or, maybe, just the very same way using different tools and finding different paths.