Since the very beginning,
since the very moment
I opened my eyes for the first time,
a steady, constant dive
into the clearest consciousness,
forever pushed forward,
forever trying to hold back,
due to surrounding loving care and sweet advice,
only to periodically,
and every time more deeply,
fall back into that same consciousness
that I am not what you are,
and that I have to go my way
and can't pretend otherwise.
Striving to learn and grow,
always being more of what I was yesterday,
only to find that I have been honed by the road I walked
so much that nobody can understand anymore
and so much
that all my will does not suffice
to give me enough desire to explain.
Striving to learn and grow
to meet and know others
who have learned and grown,
only to find myself among the ones
who sleep and never dream of growing,
only to find that I have become for all of you
the kind of soul I wanted to meet myself.
Only to find
that trying to be less lonely,
I turned myself into a beautiful
and proportionally lonely flower.
Oh, to know, to know that I was born to accept that,
to know that, as I know it,
to know that I should welcome you in my arms,
the very moment I understand that you don't understand
and still, stopping just in front of your doors,
stepping back to caress my pride,
hurt by the fact of having been neglected,
of having been forced to satisfy itself and its thirst
with a drink that has no taste,
with a company that makes me feel alone.
Is this the very first, original sin?
Lucifer's pride in front of the rest of the creation?
Or am I just mistaken and lost in the reverie
that the very complexity of my doubts wraps around me?
I know the superficial look in your eyes
and I know that you would all kill your very soul
if it slipped and dared to expose itself
to public view and to honesty's dangers.
I would not.
I know the way you condescendingly smile
and try to tell me that it's all fine,
maybe showing, in your broken voice,
a hint of suspicion,
of suspicion that I might be reading between your lies,
the very moment I hear them without commenting them.
I don't lie.
I could only find peace knowing that you do not bother me anymore,
knowing that I have hardened myself,
finally having met and befriended myself,
or maybe the easier and humiliating way,
finally finding refuge myself between the arms
of one compassionate soul
who would have to bear the hard burden of helping me
forgetting reality.
But you are so many.
You would still cross our paths
and remind us, remind me
that I still don't know why,
I don't know why all the distance between you and me,
distance that you all used to convince me of
and that I am now convincing myself of,
all without help.
I always wanted, as a child,
to meet you and tell you about the places I have been.
I guess I was wrong,
assuming we would have been speaking the same language.
since the very moment
I opened my eyes for the first time,
a steady, constant dive
into the clearest consciousness,
forever pushed forward,
forever trying to hold back,
due to surrounding loving care and sweet advice,
only to periodically,
and every time more deeply,
fall back into that same consciousness
that I am not what you are,
and that I have to go my way
and can't pretend otherwise.
Striving to learn and grow,
always being more of what I was yesterday,
only to find that I have been honed by the road I walked
so much that nobody can understand anymore
and so much
that all my will does not suffice
to give me enough desire to explain.
Striving to learn and grow
to meet and know others
who have learned and grown,
only to find myself among the ones
who sleep and never dream of growing,
only to find that I have become for all of you
the kind of soul I wanted to meet myself.
Only to find
that trying to be less lonely,
I turned myself into a beautiful
and proportionally lonely flower.
Oh, to know, to know that I was born to accept that,
to know that, as I know it,
to know that I should welcome you in my arms,
the very moment I understand that you don't understand
and still, stopping just in front of your doors,
stepping back to caress my pride,
hurt by the fact of having been neglected,
of having been forced to satisfy itself and its thirst
with a drink that has no taste,
with a company that makes me feel alone.
Is this the very first, original sin?
Lucifer's pride in front of the rest of the creation?
Or am I just mistaken and lost in the reverie
that the very complexity of my doubts wraps around me?
I know the superficial look in your eyes
and I know that you would all kill your very soul
if it slipped and dared to expose itself
to public view and to honesty's dangers.
I would not.
I know the way you condescendingly smile
and try to tell me that it's all fine,
maybe showing, in your broken voice,
a hint of suspicion,
of suspicion that I might be reading between your lies,
the very moment I hear them without commenting them.
I don't lie.
I could only find peace knowing that you do not bother me anymore,
knowing that I have hardened myself,
finally having met and befriended myself,
or maybe the easier and humiliating way,
finally finding refuge myself between the arms
of one compassionate soul
who would have to bear the hard burden of helping me
forgetting reality.
But you are so many.
You would still cross our paths
and remind us, remind me
that I still don't know why,
I don't know why all the distance between you and me,
distance that you all used to convince me of
and that I am now convincing myself of,
all without help.
I always wanted, as a child,
to meet you and tell you about the places I have been.
I guess I was wrong,
assuming we would have been speaking the same language.