Ci sono periodi in cui quer pasticciaccio brutto che è la mia vita mi sembra ancora più brutto del solito. Siccome non posso fare praticamente niente per cambiarla, mi dà molto fastidio lamentarmene con gli altri. E mi dà fastidio parlarne, nel timore che, facendolo, le ferite inopinatamente riaperte e di nuovo suppuranti diventino ancora più dolorose. Così mi nascondo, mi nascondo un po' a tutto quel che mi definisce; come se, negandomi al mondo, riuscissi a fuggire dal me stesso che odio. Non è saggio, non è sano: è pavloviano.
Sono rientrato dalla Francia giusto una settimana fa, e sia pure obtorto collo ho dovuto subito vedermela con the Big One , the cataclysmic cold-plus-year-strong, which I do not know whether to attribute to evil and icy drizzle Lorraine or psychosomatic consequences of my inner misery. So much. Today, after a week, I took the van for delivery in Liguria. After a few tens of kilometers, when the heating went into full swing, I started to feel an intense but fetorino not particularly pungent. A fart slight decomposition, halfway between the mouse died of septic and sewage. What, what is not, I stop at the first motorway service for inspection. No body, just behind the seat, was left for a week the bag with the remains of victuals that during the long journey across the Alps would serve to free you from sad and expensive pre-packaged sandwiches of French motorway services. And the two survivors sandwiches, copiously filled with homemade potato salad and well protected from DOMOPACK in a week had created a very advanced and technologically advanced civilization, to the point of having to endure the problems of atmospheric pollution and environmental pollution typical of each uncontrolled population boom. Throwing everything in the box, so I did not think the fact that I was born on destroying a civilization able to colonize the whole planet, as the dramatic dangers in my increasing loss of contact with reality. And those who consider excessive so racked my brains for two sandwiches forgotten, just because he has never tasted the potato salad that is my mother.
Tonight I celebrated the end of Carnival with an incredible steak. Oh God, I would have preferred going to a concert, just around the corner, a singer Nana, Australian and an amazing body (corps de ballet, I mean), but since I was in Genoa, and the dwarf in Milan, I had to settle on the coast grilled. The latest, tomorrow allotment with Lent pre-Tridentine, and who we have seen we have seen: Bye bye fat, sausage goodbye, goodbye CACI and scamorze. Maybe
holy abstinence and mortification of the flesh I snebbieranno the brain, you've ever seen.
One thing is certain: if I'm lost, it's time for me to do to begin to find myself, so why not go ahead.
So I decided to join the corporal punishments also a strict regime spiritual for the duration of Lent force me to converge at least one post per day, with the only and obvious exception of travel extra moenia. Every day I force you to cultivate the truest part of me, even just giving it a thought, since, as everyone says, " what counts is the thought! . Memento homo
, quia pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris.
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