“What if I try to write about someone else and let me being me?”
Margherita asks herself this crossing the street, on a February night, and she heads to her house.
“I think no one really knows how I am inside”. This is what she realized that night, taking the same path she used to do often, sit in the stroller pushed by her babysitter.
She thinks about her childhood, all the «ah yes…» she dispensed as an answer to all the difficult questions.
She tries to draw up a list of her features.
She ends the list.
She starts to cross it out.
A guy with three dogs goes beyond her, dragged in the opposite way.
S would like to know too: « I feel like you showed me just a little bit of you. You keep the rest closed there » he says.
Margherita would like to answer ah yes… and going back to swing her legs beyond the stroller, but then she looks at her shoes, firmly stuck on the ground, and she has to dig, to find the words.
Margherita never cared about being known, giving herself or being exposed. Or maybe she has never been sure of what to put on the plate to offer to someone else’s eyes, saying “here it is, that’s me!”
She had always settled for the idea that people made of her.
As long as it was good, that was enough for her.
«But…» the air blows her hair and she moves the strands from her eyes. «But I never stopped building, destroying, resizing. Inside»
She thinks about that girl she saw on the screen at the cinema, in that scene where an old woman with a wrinkly skin points her finger against her and says – it takes an acumen that you simply don’t have.-.
Looking for her keys in the bag, she thinks about the words of S. The day he was hoping to hold her from the cliff she was falling into. «you don’t feel good enough about yourself!» he told her, peacefully, like who knows there’s nothing more true than what he’s saying.
She’s travelling the last meters before the garden; along the sidewalk some naked trees surprise with small gem blossoms. Her hands are full of books from university and open the gate forces her to squirm to avoid dropping everything.
She remembers a painting of Monet and three Chinese lanterns from new year’s eve.
She realizes that it’s all in there: in a fire kept burning in the most distant corner of the bench where she hid herself and in a white, nude landscape, painted on the body skin.
She looks at herself lighting the lantern, hidden from anyone, just long enough to try to imagine, what it’s like, to be her.
“This is my project” she thinks while the shape of the key fits perfectly in the one of the lock.
“And I didn’t think I had one”
“I didn’t even think there could be someone eager to know”
“I have to find a match. Make a wish. I think that’s how it works”
The lock opens
“You keep it there for a while, you cure it, you transform it. Then, when it’s ready, make a wish and throw it”.
Margherita walks through the door and feels the cat getting closer. She puts down the bag, the books, she takes off the scarf, opens the window, scans the sky.
She lets the lantern go and the wish she makes goes with it: learn to be enough