A Unique Perspective
He tells her that everything is a disaster. And she replies that we are not so bad. He, with wide eyes, tells her to do him the favor of looking around. “Don’t you see it?”, he insists, and she watches and doesn’t quite know what to focus on. If in the bark of the nearest tree that is a meadow of greenish twigs, soft and flexible, and flowers that have grown with the rain; if in the puddles, which clog the water that will save us from the drought; if in the intense light that whitens the facades on one side of the street and draws moving shadows on the lowered blinds, like daytime ghosts; or in the marquee at the bus stop that announces the installation of smart containers in a neighborhood of the city. I don’t know what’s smart about a container with a lid that opens with a card and garbage bags are dumped into it. If intelligence is the human ability to understand and understand, I don’t know why we underestimate it so much. There is a red car parked with four flashing lights right in front of the dumpsters below. The driver gets out, opens the luggage rack and takes out two bags of waste that the smart container does not allow him to empty. Start the engine screeching the wheels. It plays a song I know that is confused with the insistent chirping of invisible birds, which I don’t know if they are singing or laughing.
The Multifaceted Reality
She knows that reality is multifaceted, that you can look at the same thing and see different things. All objects have someone who mirrors them and interprets them. He takes her hand and they walk along the street of white shutters, wild flowers and pools of water, which he sees as too dark, too dirty, too little. For her it is a space of vital continuity – she grew up going up and down it. For him it is a stumbling block, a place too familiar, too trodden on – he has grown old going up and down it. they don’t talk They just think. She tells him, shaking his hand, that we are not alone or that bad, that we just need a little hope, trust, to know that if we fall, someone will support us. He explains to her, pressing her harder, that we are not that tired, that it is the price that must be paid for being alive, that those who live and do not get tired do not live enough, or live half-heartedly, or do so see, that you can be an orphan and feel eternally accompanied. The light flees, the time passes, the thoughts recede and, luckily, they go away. You have to gather them, collect them, put them in order and love them all, the dark ones and the bright ones. It is not good to live insistently inside the brain. Without bad moments there are no good moments. That’s why when it gets dark, I curl up and hope it’s daytime.
