Un tempo piccolo

Stavo per dirti che ho smesso di provare a dare un senso alle cose che succedono. E avrei aggiunto che le bastonate prese ti insegnano la serenità per prendere la vita come viene.

E avrei mentito. Forse solo per non perdere l'occasione di dire una frase a effetto.
Perché invece non sopporto le cose che non hanno spiegazione. Un padre che muore, un uomo insistente, uno che non insiste, un no grazie di fronte a un'offerta che non si poteva rifiutare. E continuo ad perderci la testa e le notti, finché il tempo, galantuomo, mi passa una tazza di tè e nuovi indovinelli da risolvere.

Diventare grandi.

Sitting on an unstable tabouret

At the end, not more than two months did spring last.

In some parts of the world (or is it just for some people?) it is not summer which comes after spring but a new winter. After hopes have been blossoming together with nature, everything froze again and disappointment is all the more bitter. And all the more compelling the question: will I be able to endure yet another winter?

Another hour, another day, another week slowly go by, swinging between the acknowledgment that the brightest memories of this out-of-season spring will stay with you and the frustration for not getting the reason why all this had to abruptly finish.
Hanging in the balance as if sitting on a too tall barstool.

In Place du Jeu de Balle a broken saxophone lies abandoned on a bed of old cutlery. Will someone who understands a sax ever get the idea of looking down, knowing it is just a cutlery stall? Who could ever think they all were just pieces of the same metal?

For a moment I wished I understood saxophones.
Now I wish someone understood we are not all the same piece of metal.

That time of my life

Strange time it was. What time was it? Time of wishes and expectations. There were struggles and fights too. And high temperatures. With mood swings, unbearable weakness and unstoppable energy.

D'altronde, così sembrava pensarla anche il cavallo emo dello Chateau de la Hulpe.

Blame it on the unexpected sun, on the sudden outburst of pollen, on the yellow light - or maybe on the purple leds. A day feels like the end of the world, another one feels like the beginning of life. Which is actually the same thing.

Alla fine era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles.
Oppure: all'inizio era solo un compleanno a Bruxelles. Dice: it's my party and I cry if I want to. Ma non è che si deve per forza piangere.

In fact, at the end, a smile is just right, because of happiness or because of an unforeseen song from many years ago.