Once I found an old book in my parents’ library. I suddenly bumped into this weird writing style which was essentially a kind of terrific poetry and that helped reinventing reality.
I can’t tell I have read it. I have consumed it, till there were blurred lines in stead of concrete sentences.
For more than a month, I brought it everywhere. There was always a place for it in my bag and I talked about it so much that anyone in my family now knows how the lights at night time in late December were described by the author, and the connotations those had with the fragile state of the soul.
The book was “On the Road” by Jack Kerouac and it turned (or keeps turning) my life upside down.
Some may say that being 19 is simple and light-hearted. I reply it is bullshit.
It is challenging and sometimes ends up to be demanding, it is uncertain and mysterious, it involves a full awareness of being unaware of almost anything. It is about mysticity and confusion, it pushes you to wonder and question everything everyone ever thought or made. It calls you to stand for hundreds of issues and it leads you to realize the craziest potentials you were not even informed of.
I feel like I am living in the eye of a cyclone but I fucking love it.
Yes, it is hard not to know anything, not to have the epilogue of the story that is gonna frame your time here and yes, it is even harder if you are a bit of control freak like me (damned Virgo influence!).
Still, as time goes by, I am starting to perceive that, at this stage, chaos is one of the best things that can happen.
In chaos nothing is determined and you can be tough enough to go and grab a pair of big balls for your life, so that it gains a marvellous colour line and pass my greetings to mr Grey.
It is okay not to have your shit together. It is freaking okay to keep the rust and the stardust inside, within the very same place.
Few months ago I left my beloved home in Italy to move to Denmark and attend university here.
It is far away and the out there always seems so cold. I daily have to spread my wings and use my crappy cooking skills to prepare doubtful meals in turn.
Last year I worked hard to get a driving licence and now the only form of vehicle that I can dream of is a white bike for old ladies that makes my tailbone hurts as hell.
However, my heart is getting bigger and bigger and the more space it obtains, the more warmth I feel inside. I am filling my soul with love suspended above two countries and this bliss comes halfway from parallel paths.
Hence, I have decided to tell about the little experiences of everyday. Yet, among all those deep thoughts, I am dying for sharing how life is also trying to bitch with me and tease my efforts as often as possible, making an ass of my saga.
In the search of something intelligent to conclude with, I state brace yourself.
— The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
Jack Kerouac, On the Road