Crooked on crooked lines

Head up, waiting for the alignment of the planets and the fulfillment of wishes, we had not even rubbed and rubbed the lamp. We want everything perfect and we think we deserve it, we have done everything possible and we expect the gift as for the birthday, the prize as for who was the best. We do not add up when the first crooked lines appear in the notebook of our life. We put down the pen disturbed by the nasty surprise that has messed up our plan, a mixture of disgust and fear is printed on our mouth. We look at the paper of those close to us with annoyance and it seems a thousand times more beautiful than ours.

We start copying but his lines are not our lines and we get lost even more. Fabio Rosini warns us that: «We are not the ones who start the matter. We find things done. Another disposes them. We don't dictate the starting conditions. Things are not according to our plan ». We cannot accept that life is an accident, a car that passes through a puddle and reduces the party dress to a rag, a wheel that punctures itself and leaves you on foot in the night where there are no supplies and supplies, a hand to hold that has us waited for a while and disappears into thin air just when we notice her.

That you go from the bottom to get to the top, that the straight path is reserved for the elect and loss is an obligatory passage for those who are not part of the group and collects stamps and dents without knowing that perhaps one day they will become his treasure . Without going too far, because the abyss are accustomed to scary creatures that we may feel monstrously comfortable with. We look at our page full of crooked lines and pretend nothing has happened, unnaturally forcing ourselves to write straight, instead of letting the scribbles take shape that would come out following the inclination that life takes.

We don't choose what to lose or when. Happens. There are angels who fly to heaven when we need them most. We do not choose how badly it will disturb our peace. There are small lives that have nightmares with open eyes, marked by the screams that have disturbed, interrupted and stolen their sleep, their game, and their cuddles forever. They hear voices and see ghosts whose presence no one else around them perceives, with which they will fight for a lifetime. Some days are scribble where there is no choice but to continue living and writing crookedly on crooked lines.

With the only hope that someone will arrive. Someone who sees a masterpiece in our scribbles, someone who has a scribble that matches ours. Crooked on crooked lines, without realizing that a piece at a time around the stamps and dents something new takes shape, something so beautiful that we could not have wished and imagined. We are also our accidents. We would have gladly done without a few falls and a few crashes, all the time we have lost and people who have flown away. Without it we would be different. Maybe a little more beautiful, maybe a little happier. But it wouldn't be us.

Marco Grossetti
NP Novembre 2021