Natura e l'Islandese

Short – Come crollano I castelli di cristallo

Short – Come crollano I castelli di cristallo Modern society, as Büchner wrote, is no longer able to support epic or great literature, now, time has come for the epigram… the spot, the effect-sentence, pure sound expressed in songs (maybe the only acceptable genre, which sometimes results pleasing too). The Odyssey, 24 cantos of pure adventure or Tolkien’s endless books, perfect readings they are. Anyway, there is no more time at all. This is what, a very short short novel. The Refuge Trap Fran was in love, she lived near Venice, near it, not in the sweet watery city but in an awfully grey suburb. The town was killing her, as it did to everyone there. But she. She was in love. She had the chance to escape that desolate town, in which no one dared to look in one another’s eyes, because one was sure to find out sadness and anger in pitiless eyes. Simply, Paul was not like them, he was proud, he was courageous. He had colours. In the beginning, he loved another girl, they had split, and he was still lost in her sea when Fran knew him. She struggled, struggled, she struggle to have him. Please, never love who does not love you. Be not human. But she was human and hopeful, and steadfast. They lived desperately passionate meetings, with few but so cruel words. Scars. “I have to tell you something, but…” she always began like that. He remained silent. “What I mean is that I… I love you.” Silence; as a grave the car where they sat was smothering her. The tears she dropped the sea itself, the immense ocean itself could not lull, no angel of the sweetest heaven could give her relief. Why (the hell) does he never answer? Because he has got a hand, a dark hand that keeps him stuck to the ground of his debris hole. He could not remove all that old nostalgic habitual delusions, resentments, sufferance, disappointment and desperation, mingled to bitter-sweet memories, which were vanishing but indispensable ghosts. Exactly as a small mouse unable to move from the corpse of his mother, killed for a cat game, killed for the game of life, so cruel, so natural, so unjust, so just. He could not abandon its confused disaster. Fran sat for never-ending minutes, in that cold pointless car, looking with void eyes from an empty window, trying to keep together her heart, which was cracking, even more noisy, even more painfully. Every time, she asked herself how many times it could endure the hurt, how many times again her heart could bear this knife. He did not love her. Clearly, simply. Every time he answered, after a while, the question which devoured her. “I cannot love you, you know, it is not because I don’t like you, you know, I like you more than…”, “Than her. Ah.” “You must believe me, it’s just a matter of time, I must clear up all my…my trash. You... told me I’ve got to do so. Patience. Just some more time”. Thus she continued to trust and wish and hope, but she did not know that the mess he had inside would have brought her down in the hole. Time passed, one mouth, another mouth, another one. She was so tired, so sad, so desperate. Fran always talked to all her friends to cry out her pain, but she wanted to talk to him about her biggest problem, her greatest desperation, her greatest love and torture. That question mark, “doesn’t he love me, or does he,” was always chasing and persecuting, a yellow monster with a big round head. Life for her was a sort of agony. University books, friends, her silent room.. everything was simply something that she did not care, useless shadows like flowers on a grave. The only important light was him. His world, his time, his eyes, his hands. The rest could simply go to hell. A minute without thinking about him was not possible, it could not make sense or have a chance to be really lived. In the long rung she began to carry out her routine duties as a liberation from all those sweet-anguishing thoughts. She read and studied in her blank written pages, how many exams she failed because she had not the brain and the heart on them. She saw only that her friends could not understand why she wanted a consuming story with a ghost, a ghost, who could no more have a feeling. They could not understand. So the isolation came. But please, never betray friends. The Collapse Finally, she went for a month abroad, there, she knew lots of people and felt again free, she learned that there were many other people she could love, with friendly and fresh love, two wonderful Israeli brothers who were so lively, so smart, they had to escape from their nation, for the danger of the fanatic aggressions, the real danger in their land. The Israeli girl was extremely beautiful and lively; the boy was a typical steadfast and rebel guy. They both wanted to be doctors to save their people, all people, they were young and hopeful. She needed them. She needed their energy, because she felt no more young, but burnt by her grief, but overall, because she had no more hope. She was happy to find those brothers, Haluna and Wassem, simply because they represented what she was before meeting Paul. Fran met also a guy from South Arabia, his father died when he was young, in a car accident. Amin was serious when he spoke of it, she could felt his anger for the driver, the involuntary and careless killer that took his father’s life, with the easiness with which a child takes a sweet from his mother. She discovered she loved people again, staying with them, hearing their stories. She never answered the thousand calls from that damned mobile, calls from him, the ghost, the ghost who missed her too much but who was not able to decide to love or to leave. Nevertheless, she wrote him red letters, with all her new experiences, her opinions on that country, on people there, on her new life, on the wonderful feelings she could have without him. Paul was afraid, for the first time, he feared to lose her for ever, that strange creature who filled his life with passion, attention, cries and tears. On his part, he sent her a postcard. A postcard? It was to small, to void, too insignificant to her, all his sms, all his promises were insufficient. What she wanted was him for ever, not the offered weekend with him in the mountains, what she wanted was his love, simply it, just it. A day, early in the morning, she received a message: “I want to stay with you when you return home, you will see.” And she smiled, for the first time since they met, her heart was beating fast. When one receives a message, one reads what it is written but understands what is closer to one’s desire. With trembling voice she answered the mobile which was perpetually ringing and asked him timidly: “I could not believe it… this morning when I received your message, the idea you want to stay with me… I am so happy you have decided…” The discourse was interrupted by these innocent words: “Yes, I want to stay with you alone, in the mountains, as soon as you returns home. I want to keep you in my arms”. She was fulgurated, the real thing appeared bright in the quick lightning. It was not a promise of love, a soft secure warm message of love; it was just a temporary desire… (just silly people are looking for eternity, absolute truths and things like that, she was so silly) …nothing had really changed: “So, I have misunderstood… I thought, how ingenuous, stupid am I, I thought you wanted… me, I thought you had decided”. Then she could no longer speak, just whisper out her suffocated tears: “I am sorry, I have deceived myself, I am sorry but I can’t stand this pain, this joy to the thought of being with you really… yours was not a proposal. Sorry.” She hanged up with a sob, the first of many others. She could not sleep all the night, she was now determinate to surrender. She had hoped that during the time they were apart he would have missed her and decided. That night she saw the triumphant death with a sarcastic grim on her face next to her bed. She had to quit unless she wanted to see her being destroyed. The day after all the colour were vanished, she could not endure the sight of the lovers in the castle park, she hated love, she hated all. VETTORI Francesca ricevette due giorni dopo un altro sms, non i soliti incessanti “rispondimi ti prego,” non i soliti mille tentativi di chiamate, evidentemente lui aveva capito e le spedì il più bel messaggio che lei potesse desiderare: “Ti amo” seguito da un sacco di motivazioni, tipo che non riusciva a vivere senza di lei (please, Paolo, l’amore non è dipendenza), che solo dalle sue lettere rosse aveva capito veramente com’era lei veramente e che si era sorpreso ad amare la sua sensibilità, diceva di aver scoperto che lei era come lui… che non aveva mai visto in lei tutta quella voglia di vita. In effetti lei aveva ricominciato ad amare la vita dal primo giorno in cui aveva messo piede lì, così lontana, e come ogni emozione nuova aveva cercato di trasmetterla a lui, poiché solo condividere tutto dava significato a quello che faceva, al punto che niente aveva veramente valore se non era raccontato o trasmesso a lui. Ma due entità distinte non hanno gli stessi tempi, né gli stessi desideri, né gli stessi interessi, né gli stessi sogni. Due entità si possono incontrare come due vettori diversi in un solo punto della vita. Chi può dire dell’amore, l’amore è sentire, sicuri? Che peso hanno le parole e la ragione nell’amore. Se avesse usato la ragione, Francesca avrebbe rinunciato a lui come tutti i non-più-umani di buon senso le consigliavano, come la sua stessa mente le consigliava. Ma solo due cose, più forti della ragione, la tenevano legata a lui: la prima, ogni volta che si lasciavano tutto il mondo si spegneva e diventava grigio, il suo cuore era cupo e vuoto come il ventre di una rana d’inverno; la seconda, era indissolubilmente legata a lui senza capire perché, e lei amava i misteri, gli enigmi nebbiosi, l’inspiegabile buio della notte, tutto ciò che non si può capire e descrivere. Attirata come un moscerino ubriaco dal colore e ipnotizzata come un serpente dal movimento. Infine sorrise e rispose per la seconda volta al disperato cellulare urlante, disse che era felice e che voleva stare con lui agli occhi del mondo. Il lupo perde il pelo ma non il vizio, al ritorno resistettero assieme per un mese, ma lei lo assillava troppo: ma dove vai? Ma con chi esci? E non mi chiami mai! E non mi fai mai regalini? Anche stasera esci con i tuoi amici? Lei non poteva capire perché, ora che erano assieme, il suo atteggiamento nei confronti di lei non era cambiato e le faceva mancare tutto quello che desiderava, affetto. Diceva a se stessa che lui era crudele ed egoista, ma non sapeva che la vita è ironica, (lo dice anche Alanis). A una spinta corrisponde una forza uguale e contraria e tutto ciò che fai ti tornerà indietro con la stessa violenza o tenerezza. Vi prego, non fate mai del male. Stava per subentrare in lei un veleno, gift, un dono, the gift that he gave to her, his partial love was an unstable potion which could only become a gift, venom. Its name was jealousy. She could not refrain from it, the maniac of possession, control, obsession. Clearly he felt like in a cage, air was scarse, he began to answer her in a rough way: “what do you want from me? I want to go out with a friend, I know her from 8 years, you can’t prevent it. I want to be free to do what I need to. Your jealousy is nonsense… absurd, if I wanted her, it would have already happened many time ago. I have just explained to you the way it goes. I am going out, that you want or do not… She cried, cried so many night. She hated herself, she was just killing herself of jealousy. Thrust. La fiducia, dicono, è una delle basi di una relazione, ma quanto tempo serve per fidarsi veramente di una persona, e sul più bello che ci si fida… Risate atroci tra le rovine del tempio di Venere. Dopo aver visto quanto lei soffriva, lui ridusse i sui spazi per farle capire che non aveva intenzione di tradirla. Passo a passo Francesca capiva che amare significa lasciare all’altro tutta la libertà di cui ha bisogno, lasciare che l’altro si esprima e si realizzi in tutti i suoi lati e angoli. Infatti il sorriso di Paolo appariva solo tra i suoi amici, quando era libero di essere se stesso. Quando si arriva a capire il senso della libertà, non si torna più indietro. Lei ora si fidava e smetteva le sue isterie. Mentre Paolo scopriva che stare con lei gli dava di più che stare con i suoi amici. Per un breve periodo si capirono, si accettarono. Si incontrarono. Si incontrarono come due vettori dalla diversa direzione, che si sovrappongono solo per un attimo infinitesimale, la sintonia perfetta. In that so short lapse of time they saw the world with the same eyes, their hearth breathed at the same rhythm, their minds surfed at the same wavelength. A day, destiny is so cruel, a boy entered her life, she felt that she liked him, it was a feeling, a natural one, she was charmed by this person, not by his words, but for a feeling, friendship. So she began to see this guy, going out with him, declaring it openly in order to make Paolo jealous. Vengeance. A wicked game. Paolo became angry, because she for a long time tortured him up to the point that he had to give up to see his female friend, who he knew from eight years! He said : Tu usi due pesi e due medaglie, perchè quello che vale per me non vale per te, io non posso più vedere le mie amiche perchè tu non hai voluto e tu ora esci con chi ti pare!” Allora arrivarono all’amaro compromesso che avrebbero potuto frequentare chi volevano, amiche… amici… Quel compromesso divenne puro astio. Astio da parte di Francesca perché credeva che la scenata di Paolo non derivasse da un vero interesse nei suoi confronti o da gelosia (che per lei stupidamente equivaleva ad una conferma d’amore, come si può scambiare la gelosia per amore? Gelosia è insicurezza), ma dal desiderio di vendetta. Visto il grosso sacrificio che lui aveva fatto di non vedere più la sua amica di cui aveva tanto bisogno, il minimo che lui adesso chiedeva era un altro obolo alla sfinge della vendetta. Lei prese il compromesso come un affronto e come un segno di distacco, come se lui volesse essere libero.. ancora… da lei. Paolo, da parte sua, diventò astioso perché non solo aveva dovuto rinunciare alla sua amica, poiché Francesca altrimenti gli avrebbe reso la vita impossibile, ma anche perché… ma anche perché era in ansia… e non sapeva perché… stava cominciando a diventare, senza accorgersene, gravemente geloso. L’amore ossessivo di Francesca era un dono velenoso, the gift. Ora il veleno aveva fatto effetto su di lui ed era diventato a sua volta gelosia, forse per simbiosi, ancora un po’ e sarebbe stato, anche per lui, ossessione. Come un parassita il veleno si era spostato dal corpo di lei a quello di lui. Lei infine era libera e lui ora bruciava per averla. Reverse A night, which was not to have an end, they had a quarrel. She went abruptly away saying that she would have get home. But her rage wanted someone to speak to. Paul, who suspected the new friend, followed her in secret. And just because lies are bound to be revealed, always, he found her. She was crying in her car, this was not new. But she was crying in her car with her new friend. There is nothing more easy and natural than to interpretate the world and the things we see as we want them to be, as we need them to be, that means, as we believe them to be. His sudden thought was to have found the confirmation of her betrayal. The best prize for jealousy. He asked him to get out the car. So the guy did. Her new friend get out the car and went away, in order not to be involved or interfere, or simply for fear? Never judge. Paul was so blind of rage that he had not seen that she was crying. He afford her: “You.. how could you do such a thing?” She hated him now, because she knew she was just crying for him, only for him, and he not only did not understand it in that moment, but probably he would have never believed it. So, like the wolf in a trap, she reacted pitiless and biting: “I do not care about it anymore! I do not care about you!” He hit her strongly in the face. Violence destroy dignity more than the body. The dignity of all the persons involved. The same night he implored for pardon. The day after too, one week later she gave pardon, and they continued their story for one long, too long year, both knowing that something in their heart was broken. Forever. Il senso è perduto per sempre, le parole incantatrici ormai non metteranno in fuga questo gigante. Dolore, il mio vero nome, unico mio compagno, se te ne vai mi perdo, dolore torturami e fammi ancora sentire. No, non tornerà. La nostalgia è una colpa ossessiva. Odiare e amare, in volo tra due mondi incapaci di poggiare le ali sulla nuda roccia, anche solo per riposare. Scegli scegli scegli scegli, allora, le mie ali di sula, potrò allora posarle su di una sponda. Forse grazie al cacciatore, o almeno a una fredda tempesta, ma cosa cambierebbe.. tutto sarebbe freddo e duro come ora è il sole. Sporca lancia accecante, aculei velenosi di gelo, pioggia di roccia che graffia le ossa. Odio odio odio odio, ma cos’è l’odio se non un moto dell’animo. Ahahah animo. L’anima è lo scherzo di uno stupido furbissimo monaco. Sentire è dolore, non sentire è deserto di immensi vuoti, voli insensati. Ghiacci di fuoco che trafiggono e bruciano. Nessuno mi può salvare, da dolore eterno e dolce. Certi vuoti, certi bui non dovrebbero mai uscire. Ho paura che con le loro fauci mi strappino la carne e mi rendano ancora più agonizzante il respiro. Non c’è un'alba per questa notte, la notte è eterna nel mio baratro, lo posso abbellire con falsi sorrisi e ingenui fiori. Tutto è niente. Il cielo è solo il cielo, la terra ormai.. è solo terra. Nessuna emozione, nessun volto dietro allo specchio, solo una vita che fugge non vissuta, un fantasma che trascina i suoi strascichi di ossa e brandelli di carne per steppe desolate, dove la sua ombra è la cosa che ha più senso. Così, ancor prima che sopraggiunga la morte, finisce l’amore di una vita. Amore assoluto, puro dolore e massima gioia. Il colore del mondo si spegne, e cala il sipario.