We are made to be prisoners. We are prisoners of our own mind and our
mind itself it’s a prisoner in our body. Our brain is isolated from the rest of
the body, closed up by the skull and has very few means of connection with the
outside. The nature itself of our structure reminds us that we are alone and far
away from the others. And we keep building this cell during all our lives.
The world is made out of art. The way each one of us wakes up, the way we put
our feet on the ground while heading to make coffee in the morning, the feeling
of emptiness that fills our lungs through the thick morning air. Every breath in the
winter cold could be longly described by paragraphs in books, the way we perceive
spring colours could be explained only through paintings and the melancholy of
autumnal afternoons only through rough voices in slow songs.
‘I knew it wasn’t too important, but it made me sad anyway’ – The Catcher in the Rye (J.D Salinger)
In this one simple sentence there are two big acknowledgements; the first is the acceptation of sadness, the second is the realisation of what’s causing it and the decision that it is not important. The sadness remains in some ways unjustified, but
Holden Caulfield couldn’t care less. Because he doesn’t feel the need to receive permission to feel sad, he doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone, he is sad and he’s going to say it to the world through his many filter-free dialogues.
“All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players,
they have their exists and their entrances, and one
man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”
I’m not ready to open some inverted commas and let any
of the other characters talk. The furthest I can get is to sum
up what they said and then comment on that, but without
writing an actual dialogue, the ones in which you start each line with a reply
from the different speakers, those scare me way too much. My writing needs
to be in quick succession, one block, little punctuation, thoughts must flow.
Winners write history. And after this war I can tell you that it’s
not because of shame that the defeated keep the facts to themselves,
it’s because, in the field, the survivors are alone, surrounded
by their own dead, no one listening to their version.
I’ve been living here since I was a child. I think this is the main reason why I can’t stand my neighbours; they’ve seen me through every fase of my life and they’ve witnessed my growth. If I’ve changed myself throughout life evidently it was because I didn’t like myself and I want no one to be able to see in me someone else I was before.