Broken

E allora si chiese perchè era così difficile sopportare tutto ciò.

Ri-iniziare a vivere era una gioia infinita, ma ri-iniziare a vivere comportava anche ritornare a sentire ogni emozione, anche la più dolorosa…

Clochard

It was a sunny Sunday in Autumn. In this season Rome is magic and melancholic. Its majesty seems to soften.The leaves, falling from the trees, covered its superb avenues like a soft carpet, with hot and typical autumn colours: orange, green, brown yellow. The Tiber River seemed to flow slowly.
I sat, like my usual, on the bank of the river to enjoy the sight. I had always loved Rome in this period and I had always loved walking on the Lungotevere, but now it was different. In a corner there was my “home”: a carton as bed, a pitiful cover to wrap my body and to warm myself.

I was neither unhappy, nor happy. I don’t know what I was feeling but I was sure I didn’t want to go back.It was out of question. If I had gone back I should have faced up to my weaknesses. I still couldn’t.

Before becoming a homeless, I was a writer, a good writer. I had a strong sense of humour. Sometimes it happened that I wrote also some screenplays for comedies. I liked looking at reality from a different perspective. From a dramatic episode I could see the funny side of that situation.
There was a sentence which exactly reflected what I thought “d’ altra parte è assai meglio, dentro questa tragedia, ridersi addosso, non piangere e voltarla in commedia” (on the other hand is much better, in this tragedy, to laugh at myself, not to cry and turn it into comedy). This was my talent, I think, and many reviewers, journalist and critics thought the same.
I don’t know why, but suddenly I couldn’t write anymore. I didn’t have any imagination left. Nothing could help me. Not even my lovely wife. I was so frustrated and my only thought was to disappear. So I did it.

It’s funny, I could have seen my life, my reality, from another point of view, another prespective, as I did in my novels. But it’s so hard when you are the main character! It was enough to receive some bad criticisms to destroy all certainties of mine. The life taught me how much I was fill of hot air. Who knows what some psychologists could say about my experience, maybe that my mother didn’t pay attention to me. I regained my humor!
Anyway, by then I was accostumed to my new life. I was living day by day. I didn’t have deadlines to respect and troubles to think about. I believed I was free.
Sure I missed my family, my wife, my son and my cat, but they were just a memory. I couldn’t to go back, I shouldn’t. This was my imperative.
But that day something happened.

I was sitting on the bank of the river, I had breakfast at a cafè using some few money that I earned thanks to some kind people who gave them to me. I was watching some people who were walking on the Lungotevere. There were some families with their children who were playing together and were laughing. Some couples in love were holding on their hands and were whispering something in their ears, probably some sweet words. In Rome, the begin of autumn is like the spring. The days aren’t yet too cold. The wind is soft and the sun is hot, but not too much. It’s a perfect kind of weather. The only difference is that in spring all is going to born while in autumn it is going to fall asleep. The city sounds more silent, even the noise of the traffic sounds less ear-splitting. All is ready to go into hibernation.

While I was philosophizing about the seasons, one shadow focused my attention. By the shadow I could see that it was a man, a tall and slim man. I didn’t know what was the reason but my heart was thudding. I felt that something was happening. I took courage and I looked at him. I could recognize him, how I couldn’t have done. He was a young and gorgeous man, in his thirties. Well dressed, very elegant, but simple. He had some charm. His hair were just a bit curly, they seemed just washed from the scent.
At first we looked at each other without saying a single word. I hadn’t the courage to do it and I don’t know why he didn’t talk.
Then he broke the ice. He had always been braver than me. He broke it simply with a “Ciao papà!” (Hi dad!)
It sounded so strange. I wasn’t used to hear his voice anymore. My son’s voice sounded like the one of a older man.
I didn’t answer at once. I still heard his voice to resonate in my mind. It was so lovely, so familiar. How much I missed him! “They were just a memory” I had thought. I was wrong. He was the apple of my eye. They were the apple of my eye. That’s stupid.
Hearing his voice was enough to remind me what I had left.
I managed to answer only a “Ciao” (Hi). Nothing more. I was too moved.
He continued
“Non puoi non riconoscermi” (You can’t not recognize me)
“Un caffè?” (Would do you like some coffee?)
I nodded.
It was strange. We were walking together like old times. Sometimes He said some words about what he was doing. He spoke to me as if we had never lost each other.
At last we arrived at a cafe. We took a seat and ordered two coffees and a croissant for me. My son took something from his pocket and gave me.
It was an envelope. Emma, my wife, wrote it for me. I recognized her handwriting, so sophisticated as her.
How many emotions in just one day!
I temporized before opening the letter. But my son encouraged me.
I won’t reveal what was written there. Sure I could have listened first what my wife had to tell me. She was so sweet. While I was reading, I smiled. I was feeling happy.
I was wrong, I wasn’t free. I was in a cage. The cage was what I felt like failure, my bafflements, my insecurities, my fears. I was just trying not to feel them. I got out of my life not to fail again and not to feel a loser.
After that letter I was a new man. I felt inside of me the wish to change. It wasn’t all lost. I could try again to rebuild my life. I was ready.
I didn’t go back immediately after I met my son. By then I was decided. I wanted to go back at home, at my home. Some days after I did it. My cat was very happy to see me and I was very happy to see my old bookcase.
At first it was hard. I needed serious help. One psychologist told me that my problem was that my mother didn’t pay attention to me, really. I changed psychologist.
It still is hard. But I’m starting over and I’m starting to write again, how you can see.

è di nuovo tra noi

Se fosse qui il caro vecchio Bert, forse le cose sarebbero diverse…
Star seduti sul dondolo, fuori la veranda, da soli è triste e melanconico.
Quando c’era lui era tutto diverso, una risata, una chiacchierata e l’ inquietudine che ti regala questa vita svaniva in un istante.

Gusto il mio sigaro, ma è tutto così cupo, il cielo è di un grigio plumbeo…ricorda quei cieli del nord europa, quei cieli in cui ti perdi, sei tutt’uno con esso e non ti senti solo in questo universo, ma parte del tutto.

Il vecchio Bert avrebbe sistemato la sua dentiera e avrebbe iniziato a raccontare una delle sue tante storie.

E’ triste sentirsi soli.

Le pecore mi guardano e sembra mi compatiscano o sembra pensino “siamo stufe, vecchio, di vedere quel tuo viso smorto, fatti da parte…sei finito“.

Odio quelle pecore!!!
Non sono altro che un mucchio di lanetta.