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Walk until your feet and legs are sore. Don’t pick a destination, just wander around for a while; when you start recognizing the buildings in front of you, that’s the perfect time to turn around and start walking in the opposite direction.

This is not your town, and even though you’re going to live here for the foreseeable future, you will never stop feeling like a stranger. It’s not the city’s fault, either; it’s just that you can’t seem to shake off the feeling that you belong somewhere else. Maybe you really do.

Keep walking until you are completely lost. It might take a while to get back home, but it doesn’t really matter: it’s not like you’ll have much to do once you’re there; it’s not like there will be someone waiting for you.

It’s hard to believe it’s been little more than a week. I feel as if months, if not years, have passed – even though the calendar hanging on the wall clearly disagrees with me.

When you’re looking forward to something time seems to go by at a slower pace, everyone knows that; apparently the same thing happens when you suddenly find yourself with nothing to look forward to.

After your heart has stopped beating you can still get up in the morning, drive your car to work and make your way through an eight hour shift; you can still watch lame American animated cartoons from the 80s, go out for a drink with your friends on a Saturday night, eat pizza for lunch and spend a good chunk of your time performing mundane tasks; you can still, of course, drink hot green tea in the evening, blame somebody else for your mistakes, laugh to mediocre jokes and enjoy the comforting warmth of your bed.

Believe me, none of the things you do during an average day requires your heart to be in working order: your body already knows pretty much everything there is to know, and can figure out the missing bits just fine. Most of the people you meet on the street have had their heart broken ages ago, yet they can sell newspapers or ask for spare change like they used to. If you had known them from a very long time, maybe you could tell that something has changed, but I wouldn’t blame you if you couldn’t: it’s just really hard to notice.

In the end, sad as it is, after your heart has stopped beating life just goes on.

Può capitare di mettersi al computer con l’intenzione di scrivere qualcosa sul blog e di rendersi conto, una volta finito, di aver composto una poesia. La prima in quasi quattro anni.

Pensare di aver fatto qualcosa all’insaputa di me stesso dovrebbe farmi sorridere. Invece continuo a guardare ciò che ho scritto, e sento salire l’inquietudine.

Mi è stato detto che sono una persona che si lamenta in continuazione. Ed è molto probabile che sia vero: in fondo, quando mi trovo davanti a qualcosa che non mi piace mi viene spontaneo dirlo, e ci sono tante, tante cose che non mi piacciono.

Ieri ci ho pensato un po’, e sono giunto ad una conclusione: è legittimo lamentarsi, purché non ci si dimentichi come essere felici. E se è vero che basta poco per suscitare la mia disapprovazione—del codice scritto male, un accento storto in un cartellone, ogni cosa che “sarebbe perfetta se non fosse che…”—, è anche vero che sono capace di trovare momenti di sincera felicità in cose altrettanto piccole e trascurabili—un livello ben progettato in un videogame, il discreto sorriso di una ragazza innamorata, il calore che ti investe, inatteso, quando esci di casa in un pomeriggio soleggiato di fine inverno.