The space between thoughts
She was an islander.
I am talking about Giulia. She was born in Sicily and grew up dreaming of America, just like many more girls. She was a brunette and hated the blondes. She was extroverted when it was more appropriate to be shy. Just like the hornet ignores the width of its wings, she was the bearer of secrets she didn’t know.
One day, she took everything she could and went to Bologna. Unlike during some winter nights or when she used to write on her battered “logbook” her sister gave her for her 13th birthday, this time she wasn’t alone. It was Pamela who believed her once again when, capriciously, she said she loved Conan Doyle. And it was Pamela who told her not to throw those yellow pages away just because, after reading them again, Giulia thought they were silly. That logbook was a confused and interwoven collection of her loves: hysterical paranoias and fragile attempts to emerge - just like ink on paper. But this is how Giulia is: she’ll never admit she used to be different from what she is now.
Leaving for Bologna had been her own decision and, that time, it was Dario’s turn to take her seriously when she said she wanted to attend the faculty of Philosophy there. She was on the toilet with her PC on her lap when she found the presentation of a course that combined Philosophy and Economics. She had never shown interest in Economics, in fact she’d always maintained that it was boring and ridiculous. Despite this, one day, while doing her washing up, she decided that Economics was in fact very necessary to her. But... what for?
Well, to her everything was clear, spotless, smooth like her plates.
Giulia enjoys the sunrise which is now getting closer to her. She thinks that the sunrise is assertive and this is how it should be because it is a ‘she’. She writes her stories on a fading blue diapositive in the unripe morning sun. She writes bullshit about the world and the globalisation, the hurry, the noise, the opulence and Leibniz but also about the choices, the love, the rage and the silence. Meanwhile she chews the blue cap of her pen, sitting on the top of a rock. She is doodling geometric shapes and it is lunchtime already. She peels a banana and drinks out of a bashed bottle at a clumsy rhythm and with a very wrong coordination.
Her bladder dilates.
She carries on writing: she writes that everything she sees is fake and that she doesn’t feel anything anymore. She writes that, unlike her fascist-fond grandmother, she won’t live until her eighties. She writes about Dario and his lacks, about her family and how much she loves them and about their sad habit of ‘surviving’. She writes about that strange idea that she has sometimes of having a child one day, settling down and dragging her life to the “mouth of the devil”, which is how Giulia likes to call the natural death. Finding a position that assists the elastic force of her bladder gets harder and harder. She was used to that kind of tensions, but now the sun was setting and the wind was no longer pleasant. She slides on her bum, scared of falling down: her shoes are fake, as Dario always tells her.
She walks away, moving backwards. It had been a rock to hold her humid bum, a massive rock on a light hand of sky. She now looks at it, just like the sky seemed to do. Giulia, the sky and the rock are now all still like cats in danger, until the wind blows and interrupts their stillness. Giulia looks down, her eyes moving like a closing shutter and she runs away fast and clumsy, hoping to bump into Dario to ask him many questions so to fill the space between her thoughts.
And to fill all those life pauses with human events.