This is no fantastical world where I see...

This is no fantastical world where I see my neighbors from the window, and I’ve got no comment about them, I don’t know their names, I hardly remember their faces. The vase where the Christmas tree is dying is still covered by decorations but the woman of the 4th floor, of via Vasari, Trieste, didn’t see it, like so I can’t hear the sound the spoon makes when the old woman of the 6th floor stirs a hot soup cool faster, for me it makes no sound though I see it.

And I’m not replacing real life and I don’t think imagination is doing a bad job, whatsoever. I indulge in the beauty of the simple things in life. How I wish I had a different perspective, like people who have put their creativity to some kind of practical use, if I were more than a simple contemplative person I could give myself a sense of …opportunity?

I’m interested in almost anything. I find happiness in almost everything.  And the trouble with me is I love stories- but where do they fit in? I wonder what use are tales in a world that bows down to data, engineering, hard facts-but neither my neighbors have an answer, their role is that of being silent characters of a story offered to me, they’re like tales still intact in my eyes, it feels their warm, narrow, sense of solitude, cheerfulness, deep, feelings grow and gently disappear at sunset.