It is possible to start again. It is possible to reassemble from the knot to re-build a life.
To what extent are we made of our memories, of the arguments of those who have already gone so as not to be able to tell it. Why is it that an entire humanity at some point stops betting on the matter of its dreams.
To weave a new skin like someone who wraps himself in winter. Nothing to question on the outside, everything is dressed in ice.
To return from the gloom safe from the cold. The bottom of the abyss is both dark and hopeful. To touch the bottom is the certainty of starting to climb again.
The questions are inward and in resonance. The answers come from within because there is no space outside to listen.
That is: to listening.
Someone shouts at the window and then falls silent. I think I recognize that voice, which is also mine, and of time. I approach the wet glass that only adorns the view of the afternoon: the drops do not suppress the cold, and that face no longer waits behind. Then opening the doors and welcoming the winter becomes an experience of healthy recomposition. Love all around smiles and spreads out. It embraces me because I am at its pace, and now I let myself to be loved.
I write because the words belong to me and I belong to them, even if I always hide. Suddenly the face behind takes on colours and takes shape.
It wants all the summers and all the springs.