Who wrote that “To leave is a little death’ forgot to specify that it is a sweet death like orgasm, then it depends on the person and on the type of trip, but it totally applies to me who has been back “home” for five days.
Five days where I could finally be myself, where I denied my role, my age and even my nationality as that morning when I approved the derogatory “Italians” of an unknown commuter who said that after being hit by a group of people whose uniform (“risvoltini” turns-up, Superstar, parkas, Starbucks cup) was screaming “I’m Italian” from all sides.
This trip helped me also to understand my limits, to underline the fact that my health will not allow me to be independent anymore, I can not take the leap if I haven’t someone on the other side to welcome me with open arms and that being twenty-five and feeling them, are two different things.
In any case, the true sense of the phrase is “coming back is to die” and I don’t mean that melancholy that comes after a relaxing holiday: mine is a real anguish, like Cinderella’s once she came back from the ball without even dropping the shoe because her Prince is so distracted that he could stumble in it. I’m trying to fit my mask, I have to hide depression because children need a positive example, because I hate people who complain without changing things, but I’m already fed up by hearing speeches almost exclusively about children, problems and cooking utensils. I’d like to ask: where are your dreams? And I put aside the desire to talk about the last book I’ve read, how Bowie Goblin King is one of the interpretations I will never forget, about the new songs of my friends.
Fortunately they are not all like that, in the meantime, as usual, I can always take refuge in the memories and the scent of MY London stuck to my scarf.
TRACK OF THE DAY: I can’t give everything away- David Bowie