1) I’m feeling so alone because on behalf of my stupid mind’s will, I’ve let my soul die. My wonted, dear soul. But I can assure that each worrying night I rush in despair through the climbing paths of San Gemini woods, I’m still able to hear my former friend Jesus panting nearby. “Is he at my side?” I wonder sometimes. Or perhaps the gasping I perceive is just the complaining of my lungs, which are struggling in vain not to be overwhelmed by the frantic speed of my raving pace, which is very clever at torturing my breath, my knees, my heart: in brief, my entire physical life.
As a rule, in the end, when at sunrise my weary, weak body – with its joints full of pains – is heading for home by moving two feet made sore by a long walk, I shout at my bones, at my flesh, at my nerves, “good mo(u)rning, bad Pete!” I then add, while in tears, “and may you rest in peace, my defunct soul. You, at least.”
2) At the weak end of my life, I’ve made a trip in stages throughout my final days, by travelling on personal weary trains, which were the property of Pancamian (f)railways.
And I now shall pass along many millions of steps laid down on the floor by several people, all of whom were sweet relatives of mine, gone out from this station (the last, I suppose) before me, or rather my soul.
3) The sky is my dusktop, tonight, while clouds, the moon and several stars appear as many symbols (software icons, to be precise) scattered all over the beginning darkness. If each of them were double-clicked by that power hang glider (whose wandering shape resembles the one of a pointer) new universes would immediately open in front of me, as if the various windows of some computer, constructed by God.
4) I can define each memory as either a letter or a picture pastcard (pardon, postcard) I receive every day from my most regular pen friend: I mean my early life. But as a rule my youth delivers to me even illustrated catalogues (in reminiscence form) of the copybooks which I would fill up with my first works in verse. I’m wont to call this sort of booklet, coming back from mislaid years, my (re)collections of poetry.
5) All day long, the man entrapped under the blankets of his depression was really obsessed by a lot of tears. “This is my badroom” he used to complain, without a break, in a ritual whisper “This is my bed life.”
Just a few pills (‘bomb’ they were called) taken as dope, help in front of the mirror; the latter in a flash, through the reflection of his pallid face, said “Shh! Stop whispering like that and try to defeat the ugly disease afflicting your soul. Shh! Stop whispering like that,” as a rule could exhort and it was in the habit of cordially adding: “Sh! Stop whispering like that. Shake off all your grief! You need some fun hope: diverting, amusing, this hope has to be. Shh! Stop whispering like that.”
“Of course I’ll get it. Yet how shall I do?” he always asked the portrait of glass.
“To you I suggest not whispering like that and a jolly fine trip to the wonderful town they call, as you know, Venice. Shh! Don’t whisper like that.”
“Vanish. A marvellous name. So gorgeous it is...”
“Venice!” the image exclaimed. “You haven’t heard well!”
“Venice!” it screamed.
How useless the yells. Very fond of the name, fascinated by it and thus oblivious to them. “Vanish, yes Vanish” each time he would sing. “A journey I’ll make: to Vanish I’m going!”
And he left one night; he rang his father in order to cry “I’m so sad. I’m in despair: I mean despair, dad, in fact despair is now my meaning and the throbbing pain inside my head is, to me, a second heart. That of death.”
But when the old voice repeated, as ever, the loving refrain: “Don’t be afraid. I’m rushing to you. Tomorrow I’ll be there” he suddenly hung up and emptied a small tin (with a label ‘Halcyon Dreams’) of what it contained; then staring at his hand he started saying thus: “More than once, you saved my life risking your health. So at last it’s my turn to make you safe.”
After a moment, spent in gulping down, he rested a glass on the round table close to his bed and wrote, while in tears, on a piece of paper: “Thanks for all, daddy, and forever.”
Vanish. For that place he left and there he remained: of the beautiful town it’s not the name.