In memory of Michele Valente
Strange place!
I feel so small.
I think that this front-row seat is a temporary privilege, like the corner at the Orient for the apprentice, on the night of initiation.
Where did I end up? Everything seems so familiar to me.
Who knows, maybe the Architect looks like us, and prepares everything as we do.
Anyway, here I am: intermediate stage, my personal little cloud, a drink, a spyglass to observe you better, fresh air, breathing deeply.
They also bring me a sweet treat: I’d like to say "mine were better," but I no longer feel like arguing. "Thank you," I reply, lowering my eyes gratefully, looking down to see what you're up to. And then I see you, scattered yet connected, as if the physical distance didn't matter and indeed my absence strengthens the bond between you. Phones vibrating, people visiting each other, streams of words, handkerchiefs, too many beers. You talk, seek each other, embrace. Gosh, and I thought you couldn't stand me!
I want to call out to you, to you down there with a hidden tear, sitting at the table, pretending to be fine: to shout at the top of my lungs "give it a rest" but they stop me: "no, no talking." "Yes Sir, I'll keep quiet!"
I can only watch you.
There you are, too, standing still in front of the sea. You got there by walking, in silence, trying to quickly use up the minutes of this painful Saturday in July. You wear dark glasses, and you still seem to hear the echo of my explanations in the little Templar church. One hundred and sixty hours ago. The taste of the last game meat lingers on your palate. Why? Do you think I have already forgotten it? And everything else?
Come on, get up! It's a pity that the music is over, but that's enough now, pull yourselves together, that there's a lot to do. It's your turn.
It’s time!
They beckon me, I must bid you farewell.
Someone takes me by the arm.
"Come Michele, trust me! "
You knock like a man, at the door of the next Temple.
I feel so small.
I think that this front-row seat is a temporary privilege, like the corner at the Orient for the apprentice, on the night of initiation.
Where did I end up? Everything seems so familiar to me.
Who knows, maybe the Architect looks like us, and prepares everything as we do.
Anyway, here I am: intermediate stage, my personal little cloud, a drink, a spyglass to observe you better, fresh air, breathing deeply.
They also bring me a sweet treat: I’d like to say "mine were better," but I no longer feel like arguing. "Thank you," I reply, lowering my eyes gratefully, looking down to see what you're up to. And then I see you, scattered yet connected, as if the physical distance didn't matter and indeed my absence strengthens the bond between you. Phones vibrating, people visiting each other, streams of words, handkerchiefs, too many beers. You talk, seek each other, embrace. Gosh, and I thought you couldn't stand me!
I want to call out to you, to you down there with a hidden tear, sitting at the table, pretending to be fine: to shout at the top of my lungs "give it a rest" but they stop me: "no, no talking." "Yes Sir, I'll keep quiet!"
I can only watch you.
There you are, too, standing still in front of the sea. You got there by walking, in silence, trying to quickly use up the minutes of this painful Saturday in July. You wear dark glasses, and you still seem to hear the echo of my explanations in the little Templar church. One hundred and sixty hours ago. The taste of the last game meat lingers on your palate. Why? Do you think I have already forgotten it? And everything else?
Come on, get up! It's a pity that the music is over, but that's enough now, pull yourselves together, that there's a lot to do. It's your turn.
It’s time!
They beckon me, I must bid you farewell.
Someone takes me by the arm.
"Come Michele, trust me! "
You knock like a man, at the door of the next Temple.
