Lost in your eyes
0. Biting memories
'Cause every dream is destined to be shattered to pieces
May 24 2006
It’s strange to think how many things the future holds. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes a dream. The second option seems far preferable. But are we sure it is? The moment you wake up and open your eyes, it arrives, the reappearance of the real world. Sooner or later. It hurts.
Yet we continue to hope. We wish that the day never comes, that the night is still cradled in its sweet arms.
At the moment it’s hard to keep believing, despite being an eternal dreamer.
The reason is simple: I just woke up.
Awakened from the dream of my life.
Okay, maybe 17 years are not that many. I’m too young to throw it down.
I shouldn’t doubt it: one day, maybe tomorrow, I can overcome it.
But now I'm 17. And ‘this’ time I have experienced. And it is now that I am suffering.
And believe me, I don’t think that another situation like this will ever recur.
Maybe every dream is destined to be shattered to pieces.
Maybe all we can do is suffering in silence, while memories bite our flesh, ‘til we’re ready to give in, once again.
**
Now, even the last passengers on the Helsinki-Milan flight have turned off the light.
I’m listening to the light breath of Arianna asleep on the seat next to mine. Arianna is my best friend, or should I say my roommate in (mis) adventures.
The best thing about it? Being able to sleep in any place, as uncomfortable.
I’m joking, of course. She is my conscience, often on holiday to tell the truth, she is the only one who always know what I'm thinking, how to tear a smile through my tears. Who shares my joy, my sadness, also ready to yell at me if necessary, which is appealing to her ripe old age of 21 years.
But now I don’t want to worry her. Not with my stupid naivety.
I will now answer any other questions.
What am I doing on a plane for Milan, that took off from Helsinki?
I’m coming home after wonderful weeks spent with Arianna. Our crazy trip.
I still remember the moment when we decided to go, so, out of the blue.
I found shelter in her house, with my quickly done rucksack, with my black tear-stained face: my crying had melted the make-up, together with a mask of normality I had built very hardly.
I left. I had decided to leave my home forever. To leave the man who had never been a real father to me. That I had never had. The man who had never accepted me for who I was.
I wanted to leave everything.
And I trusted in the only person I had faith in: as always, I wasn’t refused support.
It was that very night, after a few glasses of vodka too many, we decided to really go.
I left the school and she left her stupid clerical job.
Our friend, Luke and his band had received a job offer in Helsinki.
And we wanted to go with them.
Us, with our perfect knowledge of English. Us, with our desire to have fun. Us, with our need to forget the world.
I smile, thinking back to the combined disasters as soon as the plane starts to climb in the air.
That’s what I should do: smile.
It’s been a wonderful experience, I repeat, I will never forget it.
Maybe a little rest would do me good, but I can’t sleep in any way.
How I envy Arianna at this time.
The silence of the plane, disturbed only by the breaths of the passengers, certainly don’t help relax the mind.
Maybe a little music will do me good. I pick up the headphones resting on the table beside me, settling them in my ears.
Turning down the volume so as not to disturb anyone, I close my eyes and finally switch the radio on.
“...Love's the funeral of hearts and an ode for cruelty
when angels cry blood on flowers of evil in bloom.
The funeral of hearts and a plea for mercy
when love...”
The vice in which my stomach is clamped is even tighter now; I try to control my breathing, swallowing, but everything is useless.
My eyes have already sold, like the rest of my heart, shedding bitter tears that are unnecessary to dry.
I should turn it off, I know. But I can’t.
I rest to listen to his voice as the mark of pain returns to burn like fire.
Want to know what happened?
Why I need to pretend to forget how everything stared? It’s just a lie, it is impossible. At least for now.
This is my story, then, the story of a dream, unreal and too short.
Like a butterfly of beautiful warm colors, a newborn, which, so early, is crying as its wings are torn off.
"The last rites for souls on fire
Tree little words and a question:
Why?”
May 24 2006
It’s strange to think how many things the future holds. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes a dream. The second option seems far preferable. But are we sure it is? The moment you wake up and open your eyes, it arrives, the reappearance of the real world. Sooner or later. It hurts.
Yet we continue to hope. We wish that the day never comes, that the night is still cradled in its sweet arms.
At the moment it’s hard to keep believing, despite being an eternal dreamer.
The reason is simple: I just woke up.
Awakened from the dream of my life.
Okay, maybe 17 years are not that many. I’m too young to throw it down.
I shouldn’t doubt it: one day, maybe tomorrow, I can overcome it.
But now I'm 17. And ‘this’ time I have experienced. And it is now that I am suffering.
And believe me, I don’t think that another situation like this will ever recur.
Maybe every dream is destined to be shattered to pieces.
Maybe all we can do is suffering in silence, while memories bite our flesh, ‘til we’re ready to give in, once again.
**
Now, even the last passengers on the Helsinki-Milan flight have turned off the light.
I’m listening to the light breath of Arianna asleep on the seat next to mine. Arianna is my best friend, or should I say my roommate in (mis) adventures.
The best thing about it? Being able to sleep in any place, as uncomfortable.
I’m joking, of course. She is my conscience, often on holiday to tell the truth, she is the only one who always know what I'm thinking, how to tear a smile through my tears. Who shares my joy, my sadness, also ready to yell at me if necessary, which is appealing to her ripe old age of 21 years.
But now I don’t want to worry her. Not with my stupid naivety.
I will now answer any other questions.
What am I doing on a plane for Milan, that took off from Helsinki?
I’m coming home after wonderful weeks spent with Arianna. Our crazy trip.
I still remember the moment when we decided to go, so, out of the blue.
I found shelter in her house, with my quickly done rucksack, with my black tear-stained face: my crying had melted the make-up, together with a mask of normality I had built very hardly.
I left. I had decided to leave my home forever. To leave the man who had never been a real father to me. That I had never had. The man who had never accepted me for who I was.
I wanted to leave everything.
And I trusted in the only person I had faith in: as always, I wasn’t refused support.
It was that very night, after a few glasses of vodka too many, we decided to really go.
I left the school and she left her stupid clerical job.
Our friend, Luke and his band had received a job offer in Helsinki.
And we wanted to go with them.
Us, with our perfect knowledge of English. Us, with our desire to have fun. Us, with our need to forget the world.
I smile, thinking back to the combined disasters as soon as the plane starts to climb in the air.
That’s what I should do: smile.
It’s been a wonderful experience, I repeat, I will never forget it.
Maybe a little rest would do me good, but I can’t sleep in any way.
How I envy Arianna at this time.
The silence of the plane, disturbed only by the breaths of the passengers, certainly don’t help relax the mind.
Maybe a little music will do me good. I pick up the headphones resting on the table beside me, settling them in my ears.
Turning down the volume so as not to disturb anyone, I close my eyes and finally switch the radio on.
“...Love's the funeral of hearts and an ode for cruelty
when angels cry blood on flowers of evil in bloom.
The funeral of hearts and a plea for mercy
when love...”
The vice in which my stomach is clamped is even tighter now; I try to control my breathing, swallowing, but everything is useless.
My eyes have already sold, like the rest of my heart, shedding bitter tears that are unnecessary to dry.
I should turn it off, I know. But I can’t.
I rest to listen to his voice as the mark of pain returns to burn like fire.
Want to know what happened?
Why I need to pretend to forget how everything stared? It’s just a lie, it is impossible. At least for now.
This is my story, then, the story of a dream, unreal and too short.
Like a butterfly of beautiful warm colors, a newborn, which, so early, is crying as its wings are torn off.
"The last rites for souls on fire
Tree little words and a question:
Why?”
♠ ♠ ♠
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