We’re still playing with life, as if by now, around 30, or past, we could still delude ourselves that we can behave like kids. I see a lot of wanting to hang on to your youth, which I understand, but I’m tired of pretending.

I am sometimes ashamed to feel immature, perhaps sometimes I immerse myself in a fragility of others, which does not belong to me, trying to understand things that should stop making sense, with the rationality of losing a bit of what was, stop listening to others.

By now I realize that for many things I am a complete man: with political, philosophical, football, musical ideas, passions, everything. Aware of never really understanding anything and everything, with my idea and my truth,

given that there is no objective one and that the ones we have have been manipulated by our beliefs mixing with those of others, in the end we know that it is the one we accept, we recognize, as far as we can put the right shades of gray, remembering, without even getting tired a moment of the “old adage”: “In Medio Stat Virtus” – or at any rate – the truth lies somewhere in between. That is, not in the mediocre, but where everything can come together.

Where one must stop wanting to be something other than who one is: I am not a seducer, a “macho man”, a man who conquers, who destroys hearts,

who looks at the life of the famous, and the beautiful women they have. What envy, and who thinks like many: “I want that life”, that person, yes.

the worst thing that envy does is make us believe that in their place, we would do better.

I wanted a person, for a long time I felt bad when I couldn’t have her, now I have the rationality to understand everything and I have the awareness of being powerless, and now, I feel the pain as a person who is no longer with me, which I remember with nostalgia, but you don’t feel anything else.

It is elsewhere, it has remained here, among the wounds that cross the heart,

while you think “I will always love her”, you know that there will be no possibility of doing anything else, unanswered questions, endless hopes that will not cease to exist, but you know, will never come true.

“And use your dreams to see clearly, always speak slowly

Tielli wrapped in mystery closed with string

If you don’t waste them, you can give them as gifts

Some will never come true, that’s why we make them.”

Pain is a dull noise, what it means to become adults, thinking about when you dreamed of doing who knows what, now you find yourself among people who have failed.

How many people around me are like me, how many still haven’t managed to do what they would like? Everyone, including even those who seem to be better off, still following the money, and other illusions.

There is nothing to envy to those who pretend happiness.

If there was one person who really had a good effect on me, no, everyone is a slave to some feeling, and I try to escape from the reality that I accept, and I face every day with my head held high.

How much time wasted thinking that a distinction could really be made between people, how much time wasted believing that whoever spoke of someone in one way could be considered better than him.

How long to be told what was or wasn’t worth feeling pain, suffering, like it was really other people deciding what you should shed tears for, yeah, big or small, what the fuck do they know, how are they ever going to know?

Having loved, well, for something big, small, false, invented, everything still existed and the pain was fucking real, intense.

With an anger that you don’t know if it will ever end, as if it matters, to really decide what is right or not to get pissed about.

As if we had to measure the fuck out of suffering, “look, I have suffering longer and bigger than yours”,

“eh, shut up, how can you talk about love for that person if you haven’t been there together?”

As if love cannot be felt except through predetermined conditions.

What the fuck are you talking to do if you haven’t listened to me even for a moment? If you believed I was wrong even before I opened my mouth? So what was the use of talking?

What is the use of telling me that someone is “rational” if he prevents you from thinking about it? What are you talking about then? How much bullshit have you told me?

I understand that you must have had good faith to defend me, but you hadn’t calculated that I want the truth, and not stuff that is false, it wasn’t that difficult to contradict you after all, in the long run.

Still thinking that to be happy you need to “have fun”, have who knows what parties with so much stuff, to fill those immense voids you have inside.

And now I feel almost nothing, to be honest.

I feel so fucking apathetic, I wish for something to happen but I don’t hope for it anymore. By now my head is out of here, I thank the theater laboratory, Mammut, the only things that are capable of shaking me, making me feel something, even if I don’t tell them, I’ll write it up here, thinking they won’t even read it.

or up here, thinking they won’t even read it.

o quassù, pensando che non lo leggeranno nemmeno.

or above, thinking that they won’t even read it.

o superiore, pensando che non lo leggeranno nemmeno.

Am I an asshole? I don’t know, I want to keep things to myself, except here, between the pages.

Yes, I can’t wait to go back to Bologna, I can’t wait to leave all these last years behind me, that I’m tired, after all, of wanting things.

I don’t want to want anything anymore, I don’t want to want her anymore.

I want to go back to where I was happy, where I didn’t think I wanted things, after all. I lived, I worked, I did. I didn’t want anything, I was fine with that.

Who knows, maybe that’s happiness?

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