danny

i’m getting so used to miss you. i see girls and they all remind me of you, for little reasons i cannot understand, that i want not to understand, that i don’t care about anymore.

i remember you because i have to. pictures come to my screen once i stop using it for a while, and your face floats from corner to corner, smiles, dresses, dances and all. i remember you because it ties me to those memories i need to tie myself to, now that i feel drifting away. funny thing is the feeling is not related to what i’m drifting away from, as i already don’t know; my life or the lack of it, or something else. i don’t know anymore.

i’m getting use to miss you, but then i’m getting use to a lot of things and issues lately. it is easier than fighting what is right now. let go, swim down the current. i’m getting used to everything these days, so it does not matter what happens anymore.

i’m getting used to miss everything. soon i won’t miss anything, and my life will, then, be back to me.

being lonely is not about not having people around to entertain you or to even keep you company. it is about not having someone around that understands you.

understanding someone is that little thing that separates friends from acquaintances. is that little thing that makes you feel lees out of this world and more an important part of it. it is what makes you rooted on humanity, finding resonance on other souls, and then learning from the differences and dwelling on the similarities.

being understood is a wonderful feeling. it is being part of this world, and an important, needed one.

i feel mighty and insignificant, like a super ant.

my life is spread along the vast internet, in pieces here and there. since more than a decade i have left traces around the web: blogs, sites, posts, comments. they amount to so much, they cover so much surface, and yet they don’t seem to build up to much in the fabric of the online life around me.

now i realise the problem is they’ve been sparsed moments without an objective to glue them together. i had the faint glimpse they were growing into a professional personality on the last moments in london, and now they’re back into oblivion, with just a slight patina covering the last months here in new york.

here i’m the newcomer, the outsider, a boy that looks too young for himself, whose experience does not radiate like a magnificent sun, but more like a binary star that passes for a bright spot when seen from afar.

this sick pedantic way of restarting it all seems the worse strategy on which to build a saga, let alone a simple life. all the ashes from that previous life blown to the wind by the turbines of the last boeing 727-400. all relics burnt and sold and left behind in the fragile memories of those who shared a moment with me. all learning just an opinion, all knowledge just a memory in my soul.

the truth seems blunt and covered in tar, stickily taking me with it to new beginnings where all is new and i’m not much of what i have been, where i have to prove it all again.

once a professor moves to another faculty is mostly because he was called to, summoned. if not, it might be painful and tragic, to convince the new world of those old assented truths he has made his and proved a couple of possible times.

like a fellow, i must find the catalytic point where it all comes together, the philosopher’s stone that will transform all the materials i’m made of into what i really am.

still here, still looking, not a clue. but it can’t be that far. it just can’t be that far, i can feel it.

just another alchemist, that’s what i must be now.

one day you were among your good friends, not too many but the right ones, with a decent job, in a lovely city, getting to that place, very close to that place where you feel you finally got it, you finally belong.

next day you’re in a new land, new city, big as it can be, no friends, no advocates, no references, all gone to square one, where peers don’t even care much for what you do, where mates are nowhere to be seen, where you feel alone and cold.

go figure, go fucking figure.

accept disgrace willingly.

life is not fair, life plays with you. it feels like so, but it is not.

there seems to be a plan. there seems to be a pattern. life examines you, carefully, constantly. tests are always the same ones. disgraces are always the same. until you pass the test.

until you know what the message is, until you realise what you can change, then it all changes.

life becomes a friend, a good friend. the one friend that told you, painfully oftentimes, what you could be. and you’re it now.

blessed souls accept and continue. life knows it, and keeps playing it incessant game of letting you know. blessed the soul that accepts and moves on.

The highest good is like water.
Water give life to the ten thousand things and does not strive.
It flows in places men reject and so is like the Tao.

In dwelling, be close to the land.
In meditation, go deep in the heart.
In dealing with others, be gentle and kind.
In speech, be true.
In ruling, be just.
In daily life, be competent.
In action, be aware of the time and the season.

No fight: No blame.

— Eight – Tao Te King

thanks. you are an angel to me. you’re uplifting and consoling and cheering and sublime. you really sweep me off my feet. your voice soothes me, makes me feel like everything was right. your giggles give me hope. and your glimpses are a promise of wellbeing and joy
 

i’d say: happiness doesn’t write of itself. is like photography, for me.

there is one way to take a picture, and it is, proverbially, “being outside”: you can only photograph what you’re not part of.

happiness does not photograph itself because it draws you in. sadness, loneliness, despair, in its displacement, opens a keen eye, and camera in hand, we start shooting.

in every picture there are two things present: a memorable moment, and the absence of it. and the longing, in a way.

i’m driven here by desire, as many times before, as ever i might argue if you courage a debate.

why? it would be the first question. why, i will respond the first.

simple: it is nothing but desire that draws us to what we want, and nothing but despair, came from betray or not, that draws us back to reason. but reason cannot come alive from despair, hence prose has to mediate. it is this prose, the manifest of lost paradise that has driven bards, for centuries, into prose and rhyme, as there are two things unavoidable in life: the centripetal love and the centrifugal despair.

and it is the centrifugue forces that push me into the written word, once and again, as the soul would not find rest until the brain does not open the valve of words, and anathema as it might be, saying what is not to be but has been will open, again and for a brief moment, the doors of heaven for someone that, might or might not, deserve it.

as i believe heaven was once mine, for a brief moment, i cross those doors again, pain in hand and heart left behind…

i saw you today, in an old picture from when we were in italy, and i suddenly understand some things i couldn’t before.

you’re a little beautiful cloud that hovered in my once clear blue sky. you passed, showed yourself in such a marvellous way i couldn’t but dip myself, until it was your time to disappear… and i tried to catch you… like you try to catch a little beautiful cloud… in one impossible way, so i had to let you go, with some pain in my heart…

now i see you again as you are, in the eye of my most cherished memories, and i cherish them the more.

hope you’re having a beautiful trip wherever you are and wherever you wonder these days, my little beautiful cloud.