Franco Manzini had matured since the thirty years the habit of getting up early in the morning. Initially to be made that the wrong suffered a sleepless night, following custom, this custom was now a reason for comfort, a reason to go forward. Just woke up, the sun had not yet been announced by the rooster, Franco ran into the house as if in search of an object not found. Every day newspapers and sifting the net for some news to hook on which to reflect during those early morning waking hours. It seemed an officer to his corpse, a soldier of a fortress Bastiani behind which you could see a shadow gradually turned off. Yet, those who had seen the first thirty years of age, what now appeared to be a pole of a man attacked a few shreds of meat would not have inspired the mixed feeling of misery and compassion that inspires no one today would dare to donargliela. It was rather a handsome, flourishing, growing between the sun and the sea and took its origin in the long and sharp features of his muscles, in the bronze color of the skin and into an unnatural tendency to lighten hair gradually asserted its dominance in the summer. He had the character of what is certainly not sad that it delivered to the ranks of those who face life as if it was the frontman of a band, it seemed the very antithesis of that character which Kant describes as the one that comes and goes on the stage of life showing nothing more than a wimp. But life, life is a stage, changing and often do not forgive neither the talent nor the intelligence to those who have the bad habit of not abound with words. And so was Franco, a shy type, reserved man who loved solitude of secluded beaches and firmly believed in the meaning of the words he used. Franco If you said "you I love "was not to cover a gap in time between one or the other sex but because we believed in and had this unhealthy inclination to faith in the next that made him a victim easy and example of a world that was not. He wrote very well, Franco, and expressed his silence filling up with signs all that passed within range. By the sentences of Henry Miller reported on the wall year graphomaniac agendas and notebooks that he had given to his fingers, the hump of the camels. Calli calli on a verge so many messages in a bottle, a strange loner who sought to share in the silence of eternity and an escape from that time seemed too chaotic to be smart about something. Not an unhappy man, he would have said, but one that smiles with the corners of the mouth and does not let go because too perfectly at ease in adulthood and in the rejection of the logic infantilism. He had no child hidden inside, or was exercised in practice and violent middle-class dream. What I wanted was the habit of saying, mentor not aware of the unfortunate truth is the subject for those who want peace. If he had something to tell you, you can be sure that you would face, without ever resorting to the mirrors are easy to hide its weakness. No, he did not belong to that race of men who say "I love you" to fill a gap in time between the other was a fuck either one of those people who says "I stopped loving you" by proxy of a mechanical means. She had a poise that made him certain charisma, like women, Franco, like a woman, Clara who lassoed his honesty and strangled him for good, perhaps without even meaning to. Like two perfect lovers unaware of the world and its troubles, even if the world had its troubles them and some would make them weigh on their young shoulders. Franco had not thought that Clara and kept them to himself as the most sacred mysteries. "You must understand my love," said the conviction would have been enough that his blind trust in the feeling tried to keep them together forever. But Clara was not ready for that maturity, or perhaps France was not ready for that love so that from day to day, in the sudden turn of a night she said goodbye. Clara's rejection against everything he had believed, literally used it as a coat for a good season and then gave him the sack. "I'm tired of you" not to miss anything and did not tell him even in the face. He waited until he was far to make him pay all of a blow to its distance, its separation, that his love is so different that in his eyes was only indifference and cold. Clara A heat of the stage was missing Franco and those who were simply good at anything she showed that requirement in their drama of life that she tried running away unknowingly every need of truth. Franco found himself suddenly alone like a dog, repeating in the mind of old tired refrains melodic songs that never ever would have remembered if he were healthy, while the night was a black dog to bite him in the stomach and did not more sleep. Surrounded by the ambivalence of the new scenario that could see love grow and flourish happy, his tumor was growing inside the cell without any change. His body did not lose weight, but almost immediately lost tone, his stomach began a desperate struggle against his starvation. It was now like a bow out of sight and without energy that tended the space needed sadly to drop to the ground that he wanted to shoot the arrow far. The sea that had first appeared to him now accepted as a palliative, a large great blue cave down in which he tried in vain to find the silence and erase any image passed. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind pursued him like a memory so distant as to be nothing but a timid ghost. There are those who pretend to die to feel alive, Franco now belonged to that breed of men who pretend to live and to feel something or not is not the problem arose because he did not feel anything. He noticed that everything had changed when they started to give him his legs, as if their nerve endings had gone suddenly haywire. Sometimes he could not even get out of bed, the other had asserted the need for someone, especially when the heat strong requirement on its head and its residual strength was drained in rapid moments. Waking up early in the morning he was so right to life, as if it were a human being down, which took power from the darkness while you scared of the sun. Actually I was also afraid of the dark and more than anything now feared that his love of solitude became the obsession of being chosen only by compulsion. Not that he had left a few friends, he no longer enough for anyone if they had been involved in any accident. And maybe why they called for caution, with that low whisper that had once been deep and vital. He remained, to be honest, in constant expectation of a pillar of salt, was in constant expectation of his Clara, writing only for herself and for her all that from that day onwards he could think of. At first he wrote, "Why?" Chipped up a wall of a house under construction, a few months after writing that had been buried and that because the plaster had been in like a shark's jaw to smash the bones and organs returned intact . It seemed no chains Prometheus, Prometheus with his teeth and execution of all packed into the guts torn envelope of skin that he wanted to offer still in its Clara but now she did not refuse because it was more slowly vanished. A Eurydice is not, what is worse for those who think they have some similarity with Orpheus and a huge inferno to explore every day. And that day, Franco began as usual in the mirror. Buttoned shirt with a slow pace of his fingers were going to look for those holes in the deepest darkness, arranged her hair with her hands, as he had done repeatedly during the day and then sat down at a table staring at the blank. For three long, long hours, while the news of the morning kept repeating incessantly the exact same news. And none who spoke to her. Awoke il sole, la casa dei vicini prese immediatamente vita e dalle pareti sottili che separavano le loro abitazioni iniziò a sentire lo spettacolo per lui indecente della felicità delle famiglie ordinarie. Non ce la faceva proprio a gioire della loro gioia, ogni risata, ogni voce viva che gli capitava di sentire per lui era un ulteriore centimetro di lama che passava a scorticargli lentamente i tessuti vitali. Come in una lenta tortura cinese che ti scava goccia a goccia fino a quando di te non rimane nulla che un’ultima impressione di follia, quel rito mattutino ripetuto per decenni e che aveva visto i figli diventare padri e i padri nonni lo consegnava non tanto al rimpianto della famiglia che non aveva mai avuto né voluto avere, perché amava Clara e la verità to the point that they can not lie to any other woman, but rather handed to the ritual even more painful than the memory of all the moments he could not live them next. In memory of the kisses that had not given her or on her lips now that those of other deadly sounded like an hourglass. For the first time in his life that day, announcing that sunny day in September, Franco admitted to himself that it was all over. It took another thirty years to figure out exactly what was obvious from the first minute and not only evident in the eyes of others but especially to her. However blindness also known to kidnap the brains stronger when they are deeply in love, then be like a miracle in reverse, in an epiphany di luce che annuncia tutto tranne che una riconciliazione. Allora Franco comprese tutto quello che avrebbe dovuto capire, legò un nodo a un trave nel soffitto e si impiccò senza pensarci due volte. I bambini dei vicini erano appena usciti, la madre li stava accompagnando a scuola, un diario aperto e bianco non lasciava nemmeno una lettera di addio, perché all’improvviso si era accorto di non avere più nessuno. Lo trovarono seguendo la puzza quindici giorni dopo, nessuno ne aveva denunciato la scomparsa, nessuno si ricordava ormai che fosse ancora vivo.
Gregorio Sorgonà
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