Mermaids want to drown you sweetly

How many mariners lost their souls in these swirling waters?

How many ships wrecked hopelessly on these shores?

How many lives were sacrificed to the sweet fatal lullaby of the mermaids?

Too many. Always too many.

There was only one man clear-minded and clever enough to listen to the deadly dirge and get away unpunished: Ulysses.

But how many ‘Ulysses’ are there out here?

How many per generation?

How many among us, poor souls?

Not enough. Never enough.

Was Harry one of those chosen beings?

He was sitting on a cliff with the crystal clear water caressing his ankles and the bright rays of sunshine kissing his forehead, feeling the warmth of the world’s smile on his skin.

Peace, joy, love and warmth: everything seemed amazingly perfect.

But can something already perfect be improved even more? Obviously yes, because right then from the clearness underneath him turned up three fabulous creatures.

They had slender and darting bodies with pale translucent skin which was made brighter by the contrast with such black hair that seemed to hide the secret of the deepest corners of the universe between the strands. And the same indefinably ancient secret seemed to be held also by their eyes of a colour that cannot be described by human words and that were all but human. But the most shockingly inhuman peculiarity of those creatures was the voice: an heavenly sound that could force your blood to sing along with them, a dark vibration, ancient and primitive as an earthquake which could shake minds and bones.

Mermaids.

Half women, half fish.

When the first one spoke, an intriguing grin flourished on her blood-red lips: “What are you doing on the cliff, young man? Why don’t you dive into the water? Come with me: I can show you what happiness really is and give you everything anyone could ever desire. Girls, money and properties in never-ending amount and there would be no need to ask for anything. Hug me, kiss me, hold me with no second thoughts ...” 

Her whispers hit Harry’s heart as an arrow shot from an unbelievable ancient age and he found himself shivering while her white and nimble finger run along his right ankle.

Harry had no time to think about her offer, because another pale hand was laid on his knee, light and ingratiating as a spring wind, and his gaze was caught prisoner by two bright eyes with no lashes, so deep he could get lost in their inhuman paths. 

“Why hesitating, young man? Isn’t luxury enough? Don’t you want to stand in the hall of fame? I’ll lift you up there: you don’t need anything but your handsome smile. Everyone would know your name, everyone would love you! Dive in with me: hug me, kiss me, hold me with no second thoughts ...”

“Come on in, young man. I can promise you the power to do whatever you like. There would be no limits nor barriers to bound you. Only pleasure, fun and wantonness. Dive in with me: hug me, kiss me, hold me with no second thoughts.” 

Also the third creature intervened with a voice so sweet that seemed the most harmonious melody ever created. She took Harry’s hand in hers and put it on her translucent chest, exactly over her heart filled with empty illusions and lies. But Harry couldn’t sense that abyss.

He was blinded by their unearthly smiles.

He was deafened by their poisonous dirge.

He was muted by their tricky offer.

He could not even think straight anymore: he was just longing for their supernatural company that promised him so much and so easily.

“ ... Maybe just a dive ... just a few minutes ...”

So he let them lead him into the lukewarm pale blue water while the graceful creatures were slipping through the waves as if dancing at the rhythm of a never-heard melody.

Poor wretch!

The clear heavenly water enveloped him with its elusive arms and he had to swim to keep himself from sinking while foretasting the sweetness of what has been promised to him. In the meantime, the three mermaids were flickering in circles around him just underneath the water surface making it impossible for him to get back to his cliff if he ever wanted to. He could not even think about anything else but what the three of them kept promising him, while singing with their heavenly voices.

But soon Harry felt tired of swimming and he merely floated. Then the mermaids came closer calling for him under the water with their fascinating and unreadable eyes, alluring and kissable lips, seducing and unmissable touch.

Poor soul!

How could he resist the lazy weariness together with such a call? So Harry merely shut up the little corner of his conscience that was still annoyingly aware and let those alluring hands drag him down, make him slowly and relentlessly sink in those clear waters.

The heavenly creatures with seducing smile kissed him and caressed him with such a gentle touch that he even forget how to breath. But that was an ability that in a few moments would have become of no use: he was running out of oxygen. And even if he would have been aware of it, he wouldn’t have cared: he was lost in that sweet illusion.

Poor castaway!

The pale blue water became as black as ink as the elusive strands of whirling mermaids’ hair enveloped him in a fatal embrace. A dark and obsessive dirge was ringing over and over again in Harry’s deaf ears.

Luxury, fame, power. Luxury, fame, power. Luxury, fame, power.

A toy world of pre-packed dreams and never-dying illusions was opening ahead of Harry’s blind eyes.

Luxury, fame, power. Luxury, fame, power. Luxury, fame, power.

The white arms encircled him in the last hug while the mermaids were sweetly drowning him.

Who was him?

Does it really matter?

Luxury, fame, power. Luxury, fame, power. Luxury, fame, power.

Viky Corners (Maggio 2013)

La ragazza che non sapeva amare

... forse più autobiografico di quanto vorrei... 

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming

or the moment of truth in your lies

When everything feels like the movies

Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive ...

- Iris, Goo Goo Dolls

LA RAGAZZA CHE NON SAPEVA AMARE

19.02.13

Elle non si era mai innamorata.

Aveva passato gli anni delle scuole a guardare con una punta di gelosia gli occhi luccicanti, le guance arrossate, il dolce sospirare delle sue compagne sentendosi come una telespettatrice inopportuna, la "Maria-finestra" della situazione, un’estranea che fa un timido passo oltre la soglia di una casa non sua.

Elle iniziava persino a dubitare che per lei l’amore potesse esistere: non si spiegava come mai al posto di un cuore palpitante la sua cassa toracica abbracciasse un iceberg gelido ed immobile. Eppure lo desiderava davvero, innamorarsi! Dopo anni di gelo anche un timido lumino sarebbe stato un elisir, una primavera, un fuoco d’artificio.

Ma ormai aveva smesso di crederci, nell’amore.

A volte si sentiva soffocare dal grigiore e dall’aridità di quella vita piatta in cui non c’era nessuno con una tavolozza di colori tra le mani pronto a dipingere un sogno, in cui ogni tramonto era solo una fredda meraviglia che sottolineava una mancanza. A volte prima di andare a dormire, Elle pregava di essere come gli altri, di imparare ad amare, di trovare qualcuno che glielo insegnasse. Altre volte, invece, si ribellava all’idea di un principe azzurro, di sentirne il bisogno, di desiderarlo.

Era spezzata.

Era frantumata in mille pezzi.

Era lacerata da un consumante desiderio d’amore ed un rassegnato orgoglio.

Non le rimaneva altro da fare che chiudere gli occhi ed andare avanti.

Ma infine un giorno accadde e bastò uno sguardo perché i ruscelli ricominciassero a gorgogliare, i germogli a fiorire e i passeri a volare con un frullio d’ali dentro il suo petto. Che sciocca: come fai a non credere nell’amore quando quel sorriso increspa le sue labbra e una fossetta fiorisce sulla sua guancia? Come fai a non credere nell’amore quando quegli occhi del colore della primavera si fermano nei tuoi e tu ti perdi in una selva dai colori innaturalmente intensi e luminosi? Come fai a non credere nell’amore mentre fai scorrere le tue dita timide tra i suoi capelli, sul suo collo morbido, sul suo petto caldo che sembra invitarti a rannicchiarti tra le sue braccia muscolose? Come fai a non credere nell’amore quando senti la tua pancia riempirsi di quelle stereotipate farfalle, quando una sua risata può illuminare la tua giornata, quando quelle due parole, tre sillabe, cinque lettere sono importanti come l’aria che respiri?

Aprendo gli occhi.

Guardandoti attorno.

Scendendo dal tuo paradiso immaginario.

Perché Elle sapeva amare, ma soltanto i suoi sogni. 

Sapeva amare, ma aveva troppa paura per farlo. 

Sapeva amare, ma amare è anche rischiare, è anche soffrire. 

Amare non è soltanto quell’infinita lista di “sintomi” che ti fanno sentire bene, felice, che colorano il tuo mondo di rosa. C’è un’altra faccia dell’amore di cui ci dimentichiamo volentieri: quella che ci consuma, che ci fa disperare, che ci fa versare lacrime che non sono certo di felicità.

Amore non è sempre sinonimo felicità.

O almeno, non nella realtà.

Viky Corners

Destination Cloud 9

DESTINATION CLOUD 9

16-03-13

Anche oggi il sole è pallido e coperto. Sarà il denso fumo grigio delle fabbriche o la perlacea nebbia d’ottobre? Questa luce slavata che ricorda il colore delle lacrime si riflette sulle strade spoglie e ancora lucide di pioggia e sui muri di cemento color topo.

Non c’è quasi nessuno in strada: solo qualche solitario passante dalle vesti scialbe e cascanti, gli occhi vacui e le labbra sigillate in linee ostinate, che trascinano i piedi come se ogni singolo passo fosse un’immane fatica.

Sembra quasi che neppure il vento si azzardi a soffiare, per non turbare con i suoi deboli ululati questa piatta immobilità.

Tutto è muto. Tutto è grigio: persino la pelle delle persone sembra aver acquisito una sfumatura di pietra. Chissà cosa ne è del loro cuore …

Ed eccoli, questi uomini e queste donne le cui bocche sono marcate da pieghe amare.

Ed eccoli, queste donne e questi uomini dagli occhi spenti ed il capo chino.

Eccoli a scuola, in fabbrica, in ufficio: “Facts, facts, facts” aveva detto Dickens in Hard Times, “Facts, facts, facts” sono tutto ciò che è ammesso tra le mura fredde di questa moderna Coketown. Basterebbe la tremula luce di un sogno per scaldarle. Basterebbe un sospiro di immaginazione per colorarle.

Ma a noi nessuno ha insegnato a sognare, nessuno ci ha insegnato ad immaginare. Siamo nati nel bel mezzo di un mare tempestoso, di un’immensa distesa d’acqua di cui non si scorgono i confini. Di cui non esistono limiti. Ma noi non abbiamo né bussola né astrolabio. Non abbiamo né direzione né destinazione.

Siamo la generazione senza sogni, senza valori e senza la voglia di inventarcene di nuovi.

Ed allora ecco che ci accontentiamo di un sogno già pronto, preconfezionato ed incartato con nastri vivaci: colori carnevaleschi, luci abbaglianti, profumi inebrianti che abbracciano corpi levigati, plasticati e risplendenti di gioielli, stoffe, trucchi e sorrisi.

Fama, ricchezza, popolarità e potere.

Un mondo sbrilluccicante di piume e strass che avvolgono corpi poco meno che perfetti e poco meno che nudi. Veline, cantanti, attori, vip: una gaudente elite di lotofagi sorridenti e spensierati, con il mondo ai loro piedi dalle unghie perfettamente curate.

Il nostro modello, la nostra ambizione, la nostra aspirazione.

Un mondo-giocattolo di infiniti amori tra Barbie e Ken e surrogati vari. Un mondo-fiaba dove tutti aspettano il Principe Azzurro o l’occasione per trasformarsi da viscida ranocchia a principessa tanto candida quanto vuota. E il lieto fine? In un modo o nell’altro sembrerà che tu l’abbia raggiunto.

Ma sono reali e veri questi protagonisti di Beautiful, stagione 21° secolo, puntata 2013?

Non importa! Io voglio arrivare lì lo stesso! Voglio quella pancia piatta, quelle gambe perfette, quella taglia da Victoria’s Secret, quelle borse Prada, quei gioielli di Tiffany! Voglio che il mio nome sia ripetuto da folle adoranti e che la città sia invasa da foto e poster con la mia faccia!

Voglio, voglio, voglio. Sogno, sogno, sogno.

Quindi è falso: non siamo una generazione senza sogni! Non siamo una generazione senza immaginazione né ambizione! Non siamo una generazione senza valori! Non siamo una generazione senza meta!

Siamo la generazione Destination CLOUD 9.

The Soap Bubble

Sometimes Harry just wants to run away.

Sometimes Harry just wants to scream and let his frustration out.

Sometimes Harry just wants to close his eyes and cry.

Because he feels suffocating, because he feels the world’s burden on his young shoulders, because life seems to be a too tight shirt. He’d like to make those buttons which chain him explode, to evade.

Maybe just for a day, 24 hours. Just for a moment. Just to live a dream.

And when this suffocating feeling seems to have no intention to spare him, Harry let his mind wander and starts writing. 

Writing songs.

That odd evening too: he was sitting at his desk under the window, watching with nostalgic eyes the sun sinking in the icy ocean while words flowed out his pen like rainbows or rivers after the thaw: full, coloured and strong as his soul, as his imagination. They were words of dreams, which wrapped him up as a scarf around his neck and caressed him like spring winds on the skin. Soft and ingratiating, they dragged him to a fantastic world while Harry just closed his eyes and let them flow.

When he opened them again, Neverland shone brightly under his astonished gaze.

What??? Is this real or is this pretended? Am I really in Neverland?

Yes!

Look over there: that’s Captain Hook on his Jolly Roger who’s preparing his lackeys to hunt Peter Pan down for the umpteenth time. And in that bay down there must live mermaids – I can’t wait to meet them! They must be gorgeous! What’s about the Indians and the Lost Boys? They must be hidden in that tangled jungle hunting down each others. But Peter Pan?

<<Wendy? Are you back? Have you decided not to grow up anymore?>> In that exact moment Peter appeared flying with little shining Tinker Bell over Harry’s head, causing him to boggle. <<Ah. You’re just as curly as she is, but obviously you’re not Wendy. She’s a girl, you know, while you ... you ... only have girly hair. By the way, who are you, Mr. Curly?>> Harry. <<Harry who? Are you a pirate? I thought old Hook was smarter than this: it’s not that great move to send here an inexperienced pirate not even with a weapon. You couldn’t catch me in any way. You cannot even fly! Maybe you made him freak out and now he just wants me to get rid of you. Well, well, I’m not really interested in making him a favour and to be honest I find fools funny. So what should I do with you?>>

Harry had a good time trying to convince that wild boy that he wasn’t a pirate and that he didn’t even know Hook or how he arrived to Neverland. In the end, after at least two hours of discussions, Harry managed to persuade him of his word’s worth and even convinced Peter to reveal him how to fly.

<<What?? Every child in the world knows how to fly! Don’t tell me you have never read my story

! Ok, I’ll tell you but just because you’re a funny fool. Fairy dust, that’s what you need. Would you like to try? Tink, would you like to help this stranger?>> Not at all, she refused. << She doesn’t like you. To be honest I think she doesn’t like anyone but me. Well, I suppose you have to walk then. Let’s have some adventures!>> And without a second glance Peter darted away flying over the top of the trees while poor Harry had to run as fast as he could on that uneven ground.

He tripped over roots, fell in puddles, was covered in mud, got his ankles scratched with briars, was chased by wild beasts and soon lost sight of Peter who almost immediately forgot about Harry, because distracted by the clouds’ softness and the sun’s brightness.

So Harry was alone and lost in an unknown and dangerous jungle but his troubles were just beginning: roaming blindly around he was sighted by a handful’s pirates who, mistaking him for Peter, tried to catch him with a net to bring him to Hook.  He ran down to the beach and dived into the sea to get rid of them. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he was grabbed by an arm by a lovely mermaid who tried to sweetly drown him. She was just as gorgeous as he expected but Harry had the feeling of not wanting to deepen their acquaintance and jumped out of the water like a rocket. And that’s when he ran into the Indians who mistook him for a Lost Boy and started chasing him with their bows and arrows held menacingly high. So Harry was forced to take refuge climbing the highest tree of the forest to prevent them to make him their lunch.

Now, alone and panting, he couldn’t believe to what happened to him.

Good God! What kind of place was that Neverland??? Where were the peace, freedom and fun that he expected??? Disney’s movie had described it as an idyllic realm! Liars!  

This isn’t a dreamland: it is a nightmare!

And I’m dead sick of it!

So, with these thoughts in his mind, he closed his eyes.

Harry was back in his room: by that time the ocean was tighten in an inextricable hug of darkness with the sky and the room was softly lighted up just by the moonlight. He looked down at his desk.

The song was finished.

It spoke about a boy who flee from home not because he felt in a cage or he didn’t love his family but just to live amazing adventures in the footsteps of others. He travelled the whole world back and forth but he couldn’t find his way in life.

That’s because he kept following others paces and not his own.

That's because he rejected who he really was in favour of the one people expected him to be.

That’s because he couldn’t understand that he had to be the main character of his own story.

Because as "a perfect girl isn't real and a rel girl isn't perfect" also a perfect life isn’t real and a real life isn’t perfect.

Viky Corners

Io sono MIA

Io sono MIA

16.02.2013

Oh…Mary’s ambitious
She wanna to be a politician
She been dreaming about it since she was a girl
She thought that she’d be the one to change the world
Always trying to pave the way for women in a…man’s world
But life happened, house, kids, 2 cars, husband hits the jar, cheques that don’t go very far now
Now she in it - can’t change it, she keeps her mind on her wages
The only rattling cages!

-The Script, We Cry

Sofia leggeva Olympe de Gouges, Mary Wollstonecraft, Elizabeth Cady Stalton, Kate Millet e tante altre: Le deuxième sexe di Simone de Beauvior stava sul suo comodino come la Bibbia su quello di sua madre. Leggeva articoli e ragionava sull’emancipazione femminile: quante contraddizioni! Vogliamo dimostrarci forti ed abili come gli uomini e poi accettiamo l’imposizione delle quote rosa in parlamento! Lottiamo contro il concetto di donna-oggetto, di carne in vendita, e lo facciamo a petto nudo! Parliamo di uguaglianza e parità dei sessi, ma siamo le prime a sfruttare la scusa del gentil sesso per entrare gratis in  discoteca! Ci ribelliamo ai modelli di donna bella e vana, ma ci imbottiamo di trucchi, creme ed accessori anche solo per andare a buttare la spazzatura! Dov’è la coerenza? Come si può lottare senza di essa? Come si può parlare di reale emancipazione se siamo comunque schiave di preconcetti e comodi ideali che perdurano da secoli? L’emancipazione è come la libertà: “(…) la libertà è un dovere, prima che un diritto è un dovere.” (O. Fallacci – Un uomo). Non possiamo accettarne i vantaggi senza caricarci delle responsabilità che essi ci impongono.

Per questo Sofia aveva deciso che non si sarebbe mai innamorata, che non avrebbe mai amato: così rinnegava la sua natura di donna. Come Schopenhauer si rifiutava di generare figli per non essere strumento della vita, così Sofia si negava all’amore, a quella che era definita la prima e più elevata caratteristica della natura femminile, in favore della coerenza.

Anche Sara era figlia del femminismo: scriveva articoli su riviste femminili, interveniva alle conferenze e parlava come opinionista in televisione, ai talk - shows. Si era piegata alle regole del mondo dello spettacolo perché voleva combattere dall’interno per la sua emancipazione e viverla con pienezza: le nostre nonne, le nostre madri hanno lottato per questa nostra  libertà, perché non viverla? Perché rinunciare ad essere ciò che siamo? Perché essere schiave del passato e nascondere il nostro corpo ora che siamo finalmente libere di mostrarlo? Ora non c’è più un padre, un fratello od un marito a cui appartiene il nostro intero essere: ora la donna appartiene anima e corpo solamente a se stessa e può disporre di sé come vuole.

E Sara questa libertà voleva viverla, viverla fino in fondo finché aveva la bellezza, la forza e la vitalità per farlo. Perciò lei sceglieva di mostrarsi, si essere imprenditrice del suo corpo oltre che della sua anima  e di non negarsi agli sguardi curiosi delle telecamere.

Un taglio netto quello di Sofia, una presa di posizione discutibile quella di Sara. Giuste?  Forse si, forse no. Ma su una questione così complessa e piena di sfaccettature e contraddizioni si può parlare di giusto e sbagliato? L’unica certezza è quella di una lotta continua, logorante ed in sordina, in cui spesso ci si confonde tra avversario ed alleato, in cui non è sempre facile capire quali sono le catene che ci imprigionano, in cui l’obiettivo non è quasi mai chiaro. Ma Sofia e Sara avevano le idee chiare almeno su un punto: non è l’altro sesso il nemico principale, è l’interiorità stessa delle donne, quella stipata da millenni di timori e tremori, infantili passioni ed ambizioni alate, pregiudizi e comode scuse, che le incatena, le confonde, le irretisce.

Ma come fare per liberarsene? E cosa fare una volta ottenuta questa tanto agognata libertà?

Viky Corners

The value of Loneliness

The value of loneliness

25.03.13

Mirror on the wall, here we are again
Through my rise and fall
You’ve been my only fan
You told me that they can understand the man I am
So why are we here talkin’ to each other again

- Mirror, Lil Wayne ft. Bruno Mars

The narrow room was crowded with noisy people: “Don’t worry, child!” “Next time will be better!” “Don’t give up, okay?” “It’s just a fall, baby, it’s normal!” “Life is like a rollercoaster. It’s made of rises and falls!”

So many reassurances, so much support!

But Harry couldn’t appreciate it.

He sat on a chair in the middle of the room while his parents, relatives, friends, acquaintances and whoever cared about him gravitated round him giving him a blink, a squeeze, a kiss or just a word of consolation. But he didn’t care: all he could feel was the overwhelming bitter taste of failure. His own failure. And tears were burning at the corner of his eyes while a knot of disappointment clenched his throat.

He needed air, he needed to see the sky.

So Harry threw his head back and looked up. But there wasn’t the sky above his head and neither the ceiling: just an enormous and circular mirror dominating the room.

An Harry with his same green eyes, his same curly hair and his same tattoos which peeked out from under the edge of his T-shirt, was looking down at him, expressionless. A bright and clear reflection, perfect in every detail.

There was just a difference between it and the reality: no crowd.

No one wandering around him.

No one touching him.

No one comforting him.

He was completely alone in that mirror.

You see? The mirror is right. Even if there are dozens of people around me now, I’m alone here. I’m alone in my sorrow, disappointment, anger. I’m alone in front of my failure.

And I feel so lonely ...

Some time later, Harry was sitting again under the same mirror and that time he was both anxious and thrilled: in a few hours he would have had the occasion to make his dream come true. It was such a priceless and unrepeatable occasion that made him weak to his knees. And he could not miss such an opportunity, not dare to fail one more time. Stress and expectation were about to kill him!

But luckily Harry wasn’t waiting alone in that narrow room. His family, friends and pals were there supporting him: “Go boy! You can do it!” “I’m sure you’ll succeed, child!” “Chill out and play hard to get!” “You’ll outshine everybody else!” “Go out there and make me proud, ‘kay?” “I’ll always love you, whatever the outcome will be!”

So many encouragements, so much love!

And Harry really appreciated it. But while the crowd gravitated round him, he could not resist the curiosity and casually threw his head back and  looked up at the mirror.

An identical Harry met his gaze, but apart from his same rosy lips, his same cheeky look and his same wild curls, nothing in that reflection was the way it should have been. Something was missing: the crowd.

He was alone.

He almost fell from the chair for the astonishment.

Where are mum, dad and my friends? Where are all those people that just now, in the real life, are supporting me? How could I be still alone? I don’t feel lonely!

Harry was confused: he had been alone in his sorrow because no one could have fully understood him, no one could have stood next to him in front of his failure, no one could have faced it in his place.

But what about now? I’m alone again in that reflection. It’s because I’m alone also when facing difficulties. Such a miserable and lonely condition!

Harry sat on that chair one more time, and that time a big smile illuminated his face. He did it: he achieved what he aimed at and even more. He was simply overjoyed and felt his stomach light while an irrepressible laughter arose in his throat.

“Wonderful! You’ve been amazing!” “I knew it, lad, you’re the best!” “So proud of you, baby!” “You can do anything! You’re unbelievable!” “Love you!”

The usual crowd was still gravitating round him.

So many praises, so much appreciation!

And Harry was so happy and grateful.

But he couldn’t stop himself throwing back his head for the third time and looking up at the well-known mirror. The same old Harry was looking down at him with his same dimples standing tall on either side of his smile, his same slender fingers and his same delicate lineaments almost childlike.

And once again there was no one behind him and not even around him.

No crowd.

He was alone. He couldn’t see anyone but himself in that reflection, but it wasn’t really that surprising. He had finally figured it out.

See? I’m alone this time too but it doesn’t mean I’m lonely: the mirror reflects only my figure because I am the main character of my own story. All others are supporting characters, but I am the author of my failure and success, I am the one who have to overcome my own hurdles, I am the director of my own life.

I am my own weapon and with it I can hold in my hands my destiny.

I am in charge of my own life.

Lettera di un'adolescente sull'adolescenza

Lettera di un’adolescente sull’adolescenza

06.10.2012

Cara Mamma,

perché non provi ad ascoltarmi davvero? Non solo con le orecchie ma anche con la mente, con il cuore. So che è uno sforzo, ma perché non provi ad essere me per un momento? Ho 18 anni e trovo difficile vivere la spensieratezza della mia età: ho la testa piena di sogni ma li trovo imbrigliati nelle mani d’altri; non mi conosco ancora e già mi si chiede di essere qualcosa di diverso da me stessa.

Mi sento ricca e povera allo stesso tempo: ricca perché la mia famiglia mi ama, sono sana ed intelligente e nessuno mi ha mai detto che non posso essere ciò che voglio, ma

povera proprio perché non so cosa voglio, perché non mi sento parte di qualcosa e tuttavia ho un disperato bisogno di appartenere a qualcosa, perché mi sento un’estranea ovunque, anche nel mio stesso corpo.

Io voglio diventare qualcuno e conoscere questo qualcuno: sto cercando di costruirmi un’identità contro cui non sia costretta a lottare ogni giorno della mia vita, che non debba disprezzare e per cui io non debba maledirmi ogni giorno, ogni ora.

La mia intelligenza e la mia educazione sono sempre stati un grande ed apprezzato dono, ma costituiscono anche il mio fardello perché mi hanno resa critica sia nei confronti degli altri che di me stessa. Ed io so che mi odierei e mi disprezzerei se avessi coscienza del fatto di essere diventata una persona che confonde il giusto con l’utile, la verità con l’ipocrisia, la determinazione con la mancanza di scrupoli.

Non è una questione di principio: sono consapevole che per l’uomo  la verità, la giustizia e la libertà sono concetti relativi, senza alcun valore assoluto. Ciò che per te è vero, certo e sicuro come Dio per me è solo un’illusione, un bel sogno consolatorio, quello che per il cacciatore è giusto e necessario per la preda è la più grande delle ingiustizie e la libertà assoluta non può esistere perché se non è la società che ci incatena lo faranno le leggi naturali e quelle fisiche.

Non mi faccio illusioni, eppure non ho intenzione di cedere su questo punto: non rischierò di diventare una persona disprezzabile solo per fare “carriera”, che si parli di scuola, lavoro o semplicemente vita. Non è un prezzo che sono disposta a pagare.

Il discorso machiavellico di fare il mio utile in questo mondo di squali, di sottostare al gioco diseducativo ed oserei persino dire “corrotto” dei miei insegnanti pur di raggiungere il mio scopo, è assolutamente razionale, te lo concedo. Ma tu non tieni conto di chi sia io, o per meglio dire, di chi non sia io: non sono un’identità completa, radicata, finita, solida che può permettersi di indossare una maschera ed uscirne illesa. Chi mi assicura che, una volta finito il giochetto e raggiunto lo scopo, io riesca a ritrovare i confini del mio io e a togliermi la maschera? E se non ci riuscissi? E se i contorni del mio io, così labili e nebulosi, si sfumassero e mischiassero con quelli della maschera? E se diventassi una persona disprezzabile? Sarei io poi a doverci convivere. Sarei io la prima ad odiarmi.

C’è sempre una scelta tra moralità ed utile, ci deve essere. Lo afferma anche Kant. Ma devi essere pronto ad accettare le conseguenze delle tue scelte, qualunque esse siano. 
Io sono pronta: sono pronta ad accettare le conseguenze di cercare il mio io a discapito di un’ambizione, sono disposta a prendere la strada più ardua e forse a dovervi persino rinunciare. Ma non sono disposta ad odiare me stessa.

Ti voglio bene,

                       la tua bambina idealista