Description

How many Italians have part of their family in another region?

Many "stable affections" were reunited in June 2020 after difficult months, spent largely within the home.

In Italian stations we witnessed romantic scenes: kisses and hugs between relatives, boyfriends, lovers. Phase 3 had begun!

Saying goodbye at the station is romantic.

Stations, as we know, are places where writers often set part of the love stories they tell. The station is the place of broken hugs, of rediscovered ones, of kisses that are never enough..."Hello love"...

A few polished eyes, a greeting with its pain, even if they are almost never definitive greetings: the station condenses everything, absorbs, hides and cuddles.

I observe.

I stopped to look at those hugs that don't belong to me, that aren't mine (or maybe yes!), that I see as dense, exciting and emotional and that I therefore admire while imagining their stories. I like it when you arrive at the square and there is that moment of rediscovered hugs, smiles and suitcases to put in the car to go home.

Then there is someone who goes away alone, sad or dreamy.

There is someone who arrives, alone and no one welcomes him, but "a distant friend is sometimes closer than someone close at hand".

(K. Gibran)

On the tracks imitating movie scenes.

Alone on the tracks.

Greetings as if they were the last or the first of others to come.

Special story tracks: human landscapes.

(...) "I have to run, that train isn't waiting for me!" (...)

How many trains have I seen pass by quickly, lost in the indecision of too many ifs and buts,

always there to calibrate, weigh, weigh down.

Always me, too much me, damn me.

Me and my fears; me and my obsessions; me and my obsessive perfection.

 I who didn't know how to listen to the heart...

(...).

But have I ever been happy before?

I enter the station, ask for a ticket.

Destination?

I would like to say about you.

I cannot.

I get on the train, seat next to the window, direction of travel:

I want to look forward and not what I leave behind.

Countrysides, telegraph poles, houses, lives flow by.

That glass separates me from the world.

In that glass I also see myself reflected.

I am part of that world that I see passing by and I cannot grasp, hold, capture.

But what is it that I really see?

Myself or the idea I have of myself?

Before I met you I was a burden, rubble, armor of hardship, a tangle of fears: yet I appeared rational, severe, disciplined.

I was what I wanted to be.

I was anchored to my sounds, to my rituals. I didn't want to fall.

Then you.....and I didn't collapse, I was born again, in you and I started to belong to you.

I arrive at the station and you surprise me, arriving: then everything seems fine, summarized, completed, whole, perfect...

..and it agitates me now, that thought of you, again.

(...)