It broke the shutter of the shutter and the shutter is murandomi thrown down in my bedroom, without leaving even a glimmer of night air that cools my night. I can not resist in that room with that thick and suffocating. I move in the room, I do not know, maybe tonight I will sleep on the couch, at least to allow me to breathe. Although the two seem almost too soon to say goodbye to this long day. I write, I go back to writing. First on a yellowed piece of paper I find on the desktop, then behind receipt of a baker, now here, in this imaginary page. I turn on my computer and I wrap the intense melody of the music by Gabriel Yared. I savor the emotions of these two pleasant evenings in a Follonica so popular this time of year. I think my feet free from sandals sunk in fresh sand, slowly sipped a beer between words slurred speech in the company, at that flat sea lit by night, that little bar on the waterfront that seems a bit me back 'to myself. Tonight I ask myself why I continue to make myself the chameleon-like metamorphosis that I can not bear, tonight I understand the deep sign of discomfort and alienation that I perceive to wear certain masks, to look for certain movements that talk about a Barbara who is not me. I feel tonight, I feel I belong. Tonight I really do not change a thing in my face, my body, my breasts, my hands, do not wear more clothes if they do not turn my words, the tone of my voice, the way I move, to be among others. Yesterday, moving from Massa Marittima Grosseto to, I drove along that road in the middle of the campaign that accompanies the forms of a small lake and winding through the vineyards and fields of this for me Maremma still bitter and extremely boggy. I thought that it was nearly twenty years that I spent there. I belong in being able to trace an imaginary line that links la Barbara di oggi a quella di quegli anni. Mi appartengo perché non trasformerei una nota della mia melodia, da quelle più intense a quelle più stonate. Mi appartengo perché nell’immergermi nell’atmosfera ansiogena e magica degli esami di maturità ritorno con la mente a quel luglio del 1993 e scopro che ho disegnato un percorso lineare, uniforme e coerente pur nel suo essere intimamente contorto e attorcigliato su se stesso. Stasera assaporo il piacere del riconoscimento, il piacere del mio stesso rispecchiamento. Stasera sembra che percepisca l’esaurirsi di una fase convulsa che mi allontanava da me stessa e mi sento felice. E vedo mia madre, con l’espressione di enorme preoccupazione con cui l’ho percepita nell’ultimo dream in which I repeatedly asked her not to cry. I can not sleep on the couch. But perhaps I can not sleep.
0 comments:
Post a Comment