ON AIR: White Winter Hymnal, Fleet Foxes
I do not want to write . It makes no sense that I write because I have nothing original or interesting to say the least. Do not bother me more the idea that the world could get me and I do not like to tell - more or less detailed or more or less poetic, more or less attractive - what's going on in my life. The truth is that now I'm somewhere else, some A world where you do not want to dissect every tiniest feeling or just the beginning of a bad mood. Or maybe it's just not sympathetic, I try in every way - every day - to feel and be real. REAL. Enough with the emotional amplification, the delirious monologues, speeches all internal to my head, then those who have no sense when compared to the reality of human relationships. Enough of me that I lean on the edge of a cliff that is not there, I want to see below me for not having to admit that the norm exists and, instead, there is no obligation to be exceptional. What is exceptional even when you think about what to cook for dinner, without having to blurt out everywhere, wearing blood-stained shroud and crown of thorns. I am so exceptional that I am not ashamed at all to be normal. Wonderfully normal.
This does not mean that I will write more. And it shows that I'm writing now, despite everything. It 's just that I'm trying to grow up, while trying to graduate by April, to prepare the final three exams and survive in a city of shit which is Rome. Especially when it rains.
Tonight I have not slept, I woke up at dawn, went out with a thunderstorm in progress and it took me an hour and a half to travel the route from home to university, that is 3 or 4 km. By bus. I arrived and I read a huge ad on the front door: ALL POLITICAL SCIENCE LESSONS TO BE SUSPENDED FOR THE SUDDEN DEATH OF PROF. Massimo Baldini. I had the wish to break through the glass door tested. And yes I had to wade through a couple of lakes arose in the night and fight with a dozen people on the tram and abolish the principle of fainting due to the lack of air in the bus ... but then it really true that it must always be the best. It is not to be trivial, really, but this man was a wonderful human being, a very good prof. Theory of Semiotics and techniques of journalistic language and an Associate Dean with all the attributes of the case. And he spoke divinely. So I'm sorry sincerely and death makes me more sick. In addition to fear, of course. Blind terror, indeed.
What else? I have to go in the Secretariat, go home and then wade back a couple of new lakes, new training, wash your hair, change the sheets, sleep, eat, study Macroeconomics, do the exercises in German, shopping, eating, sleeping, stop smoking. And wait for tomorrow, tomorrow afternoon, because until then you'll see.
year like Christmas, so reckless, almost frantic. I need trees, colored balls, lights, wrapping paper, bows and advertising reassuring. I do not give a fucking nothing to what it's all materialistic or spiritual or put little or insansato: I want to be frivolous. I was not too long and I have to take a pause for reflection by me that someone wanted me. So Christmas is well and welcome even the New Year, because this time I'll be with you and not spend thinking about how much I dislike the human race will be two to think about it, and be less sad.
There's nothing I want at the moment, but to continue to make love with you. Repeatedly. It is enough.
And I turn round and there you go.
