The King is dead...

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