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A walk in the neighborhood
 FanaticWhen I was little I used to play with toy cars. My playground was a wide and unfurnished hall full of my little junk. Old dolls, a tepee, some behaded teddy bears, hills of Lego. And toy cars. Sometimes I wonder why do some memories stick to our mind more than others. What's the difference?And why do we forget so many days of our past? How long does it takes to tell to someone the part of my life I clearly remember? Hours, maybe days. Not the time I have spent living it. |  SomersaultThe first time I rode an horse I was around 13 years old. It belonged to a friend of mine. A sweet girl older than me of a couple of years. Her parents were divorced and she hated her stepmother. I started to hate her stepmother too, just cause we were friends. It was a matter of heart. A matter of feelings. I haven't seen that girl in years. I do not even remember her name or her voice or the color of her eyes. I just know she had black hair and her horse was brown. |  MezzanineWhen I was ten I went to the theater for the first time. I went alone, with my brother cause my mum could afford only two ticket. She waited in the car with my dad for hours. Outside. The play was "Cyrano". I still remember how fascinated I was by all those lights and fine dressed-up people. I remember the stage, the actors, the voices fitted to reach every single corners of the audience, from the parterre to the mezzanine. And I remember the face of mum when I ran back to her after the show. |
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 The roseOnce I got for present a bunch of roses. And I didn't even like them. I was too busy with something else. I was to focused on something else. After some years, when I wanted to receive roses or even just one single flower, I got none. It was too late. There is a time for everything in life. If you miss the shot. You miss it. Now, if I want a rose, I go and buy it by myself. It's easier. |  Tilt angleA plastic table, the shadow of a pine tree or of an oak, the buzzing of customers and waiters. In my mind this is a picture related to many places of my past. The small bar close to the Ticino river where I went with my classmates after the last day of junior high school. The garden of a small coffee bar in Novara. A small taverna, any small taverna, here in Athens during summertime. There is always a plastic table, some cheap chairs and a cozy, noisy air all around. |  Red BeetleSometimes we forget. We forget many things during our lives. We forget umbrellas on trains. Scarves or hats in restaurants. We forget keys, lighters, notebooks. People. Sometimes we forget people too. And we won't always be able to remember what we forgot. Neither to find what we lost. Even if we would like to find them. To reach them. To touch them. Sometimes the ones we have lost just don't want to be found again. |
 ShuttersSometimes we obsess over something. A detail, a word, an attitude. We obsess so much that we start to lose ourselves in that tiny part of reality. We start to believe that the object of our obsession is the entire universe, the whole reality. We do not realize that right behind us, there is an entire world that could be explored. Grief is this: we stare at some closed shutters instead of cherish the olive tree at our back. |  LinesHuman beings love lines. Lines of buildings, lines of cars, lines of trees. Lines of people waiting for something. Hoping for something. Dreaming of something. Maybe this never - ending loop of straight lines is a sort of metaphor of the fact we all lack in discipline. The point is we always look for order but, we are a mess. We decide rules, but we ignore them. We make promises, but we break them. Cause we don't want to feel too too compelled. Like stuck in a line. |
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