To you, my dear friend
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Woiler, April 20, 2023
Dearest,
A few days ago, I took a day trip to Paris. That evening, on the suburban train that took me back to the Gare du Nord, I shared a carriage with only a few people, contrasting with the daytime crowd that rushed through the streets and the metro.
With me were a few travelers, alone together, differing in ages, origins and destinations. A couple chatting peacefully; another couple of women holding hands, without any words; a man immersed in his cell phone. Several other people evolved in their world. I could read their stories in their faces, the imperceptible movements accompanying their thoughts. The suburban train is made up of inner travelers.
I had the feeling of waking up from a long acceleration, or rather from a stupefaction, from a stop of the senses, just like others suffer cardiac arrests. A few days before, I had begun to slow down, rediscovering reality, the smells, some sweet, some pungent, the light flooding the streets, the grace of bodies in daily routine movements, others looking at no one even themselves, the smooth stone texture of public monuments, the background noise of the street like the sound of waves, enjoying every breath of air that filled my lungs and passed through my body in a healing breeze.
It seemed to me that I was watching a stage in a theater, with actors performing a silent minimalist play, whose human depth and complexity I perceived at once. The participants were acting as none of the best actors of all time could have acted. Their faces were the exact reflections of their inner worlds. In this suburban train, passing through low-cost housing areas with facades stained with small rectangles of yellow and blue lights, and soot-black tunnels, late at night, immersed in the pale light of the train wagon, there was fascinating beauty, the ultimate reason to live, la Madonna Povertà.
My dear friend, tell me how you are, where you are, where you want to live.
With love,