I belong to the a
generation that was hiding its secret love rendez-vous in cabs filled with
inflamable love.
A generation fed
with true faithfulness and big words,
growing up transcended by the beauty of declaring pure “I love you”s, without
any GIF on it, just out of the blue, one morning, one afternoon.
May be this still
exists around me and I just do not grasp it.
May be I am still
seeing it around without really understanding I do.
As I am certain
love is so different of the insipid stories I keep hearing around me, ending
with dots dots dots…Devoid of beginning or ending.
It would be easy
to blame Internet and the consummers’ society, all these children of Satan that
we keep taking out of the closet for explaining each fragment of our society’ drifting
away, of a general lack of poetry.
But I find that
there is something else happening nowadays.
Something
connected with fear.
“To really love”
has drifted in the camp of anxiety.
People are scared
to lose love as when losing a job. There is a general fear, and rare are those
who still dare anything at all anymore.
What truelly
breaks my heart is to read biographies as those of Anjelica Huston and Jack
Nicholson, of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe. With horse rides in the
forrest first thing in the misty mornings, with impossible problems to solve,
with bitter glory, with common drunkeries, with the assumed inconsequence of an
union, with accidents.
Filled with the
possibility of failure. Of decline.
There was a time
when people were not supervising their kids each second, when falling in a
ravine, taking drugs, dying, were mear possibilities.
And in that fine
gap between life and death, layed the shining unknown. With Death lurking from around
the corner, of course, but also with adventure and fresh breaths.
I watch the
younger generations that have nowhere to go for a flirt, for love, just because everything and everywhere is too
boring. But tacitly they would love to be left to love, in a crazy and total
manner.
Just that nowadays
they see the andat on love restraining, just as all the laws about security in
traffic.
Their love stories
are left without zest.
Just nothings.
And dots dots dots…
Casting anemic “love” as hurling a plasticized hologram of their
heart.
Their heart, their
real one, they keep it for themselves.
5 am this morning,
a man of my generation who, I believe, likes me a great deal, sent me a
facebook mess: “What are you up to ..”… I answered: “ I am ready for love. As
always. Without you. Without dots”.
giulia d
