I have promised not to launch into exaggerated claims about the state of social paralysis in my country (not country, that's another story, with the same incipit, pero '), after years of observation and comparisons I feel more and more 'deeply convinced that the only real problem which the whole of the atrophy in my region is found to be almost only and only a total lack of comparison with other realities, other people, other cultures. It seems remarkably absurd, since from Calabria are really gone all the peoples of the world and this strip of land is now inhabited by more 'than 12,000 years, but the state of backwardness and ingrained sense of parasitism, dishonesty, cultural inertia and narrow-mindedness that continues to characterize the people compels me to dedicate at least a few lines to my uncontrollable anger. All efforts are useless and inconclusive: the lack of reflection also made evident and clearly aimed at undermining the collective good not only personal but also the individual is something depressing and discouraging. With all the possible good will in the world, you can not 'hope to show a blindfolded person under the color temperature of the more' colorful exists, or you can 'hope that those who deliberately take a view in gray scale can never understand the nuances of a rainbow detail. As will be explained with words more 'immersive and deep that a human being can' find. This land goes to the implosion, it closes more and more 'on itself, and a hundred years from now I see these houses already crumbling deserted and abandoned, because this is the fate they deserve, that we wrote with our hands, with our pen, our ink: Calabria is dead because the Calabrian who allowed this to happen. Why abuse, mafia or not, and perpetrated by gangsters and not, have gone unpunished and legitimized by the silence and tacit endorsement of the entire population, and for generations. Three years and eight months away from here have done nothing but worsen my perspective, far be it from me and spit on the land where I grew up and where I learned to live. Only, my way of seeing things is now so far from this reality that I can not really more 'to be part of it, I would have hoped that the Lisbon's typical arrogance, now that I have espoused, I had come to the rescue, in these few hours spent already deleterious for my remaining hopes of revival Calabria, to ignore the solemn little envy, children's games, the constant feeling of unfinished hanging over our shoulders, but no: instead I feel so defeated and deeply inappropriate that I would just have to disappear from the eyes of these people, not having never again 'come back, sink into one of these deserted streets forever leaving any trace of this pain I feel deep inside and never be able to erase, collapse together in the general indifference to these homes and these rotting walls of defeat and shame and silence, overwhelmed the recent past useless and superfluous, to die like this country and terrible failure.
And a few hundred years to be forgotten even Perfect satellite maps from Google.
Calabria was a beautiful land, says Wikipedia, a desert and barren mountains and endless seas, where they spoke a language dall'incedere greek who leaked a noble and ancient history now lapsed. Fault of its own inhabitants.
Some may tell the sad and shameful story of the fall of my people, my children will not, for I shall not, for the simple fact of feeling unable to be so reckless to entrust unfortunately this same burden that I carry on his shoulders, which as always will perform with pride in my accent lowland wherever I find having to defend, no other color than that of black defeat and abandonment of the gray day that we're delivered from time immemorial, are proud to be as they are, are from Calabria and with all my fellow countrymen are still a hero to potermelo afford. But it is here that I will never feel happy.
and I do not really tell my cocks this time. Since returning a few hours ago, I just continued to build waste boxes: school books, toys of my childhood, forgotten comic books, collections of figurines, even CDs and videotapes. My first Sony walkman at least twenty-three years ago, I kept with me, along with a few other odds and ends: the rest is gone, stubbornly pursuing an activity that has been going on for some months without any break, mainly to prevent me from thinking for even a moment in the past, present, future that awaits me.
I'm severing any roots.
Every day is November and my soul has never had such a leaden sky, and yet they are at peace, I feel a deep silence around, I feel I do not have to explain, I feel to be no longer 'suffer. Will be the last gasp of the decade of the 20 years I see swarms of peers running desperately against time to clear the solitude I continue to embrace it, stoically, with pride, with dignity and fierce passion. I want my corner inside myself, I'm tired of the disappointments of others: I many things to see and many of them fall in love decadent glimpses not have the time and the patience nor the need to create me a trivial and social fabric to which cling to.
Leave me here with my mundane and recurring dreams, with my words indifferent to everything except myself, to sink in and collapsed together and only these stupid and rotten homes.
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