Sometimes there are on the border, watching the trains pass by in life that paws. There are days when swinging his legs like innocent children, with a smile on his mouth, his hands under his thighs, sitting on a bough hanging. There are days when we huddled on their knees, hug the shoulders, head down. When Diluvial drops, or when the icy wind whip the east there ears. Attempt to repair, and from there we look at life on the move. The life that screams, shudders, sleep, exploding and soon subsides. Life moves, while we are still, still on that branch. Still, watching. Foreign spectators. Alienated viewers.
Sometimes it is also a great view from up there. Panorama, great mountains, beautiful rivers, yes, but nothing else. There is a fragrance that is glimpsed, a sound that s'assapora. There's a Something-Of-The more that goes there. Beyond "what" I can not say. I sense that something just has the courage to go further, to break that thin crusted skin damp aura of the world. And it is beautiful, wonderfully nice to be able to see him in passing. And then miss it, let him slip to search for it in the faces of children, a blossoming flower, the smile of a woman. Have it slip through our hands, and chase in the streets, in homes, where life takes shape.
We can only do a Jump, Jump a little big to go down from that branch. Go down and start chasing the Life glimpsed, but hidden. Not è una roba così semplice, così immediata: si ha paura di farsi male, a gettarsi dall’alto. Alla fine è comodo restarsene sul ramo, a guardare la Vita da lontano. E’ come stare un’intera esistenza a guardare film, su film, su film. Miliardi di storie passerebbero da quegli occhi sognanti, ma mai nessuna volerebbe via dalle dita della mano, attraverso linee curve d’inchiostro. Una gran tristezza.
Ma non sempre si ha la forza, l’audacia di andare a ri-cercare quella Vita smarrita. Ci vuole faccia tosta, incoscienza per mettersi a correre come bambini in una via che pullula di persone. E lì cercarla spasmodicamente, guardare dietro sorrisi, dietro coni di gelato che grondano liquefatti, behind a scoop bigger than the hand of a blond girl.
Sometimes you prefer to stay on the boundary line, on a bough hanging between life and death, between Life and Non-Living. You can stay a pampered life to ever planted seeds, to see the potential of a sublime spirit unresolved. We can contemplate our shadow behind him, just for fun. You can talk to the clouds with the elegance of the wisdom of the subjunctive and conditional, but there will never be an honor to present tense to make us who we are and not what we might be. You can not live a life potentially, for fear of jumping off. For fear of scratching the consciousness and do not sleep at night. For fear of seeing drain shin on a thick stream of blood.
Life lives even the bad. In fact, maybe just likes to hide in there. There, in that troubled dialectic of joy and pain, fullness and bitterness. It 's all a dynamic mixed into a single moment that smacks of the eternal. And the eyes, the eyes cry with pride. The eyes that have raced, struggling, panting up to the extreme and now rest in a corner to lick their wounds. That's Real Life, Life uncontrolled, free from chains. That's conscious life, able to accept the romance and fall in the mud.
Life, for us who watch it from that branch suspended between heaven and earth, it's just a gray film of others. Do not know Other, belongs to others. Not to us, to others. It is not a "more" but a "them." It would be enough to jump down, cursing the pain of landing, to realize that from that branch can only watch, never live.
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