Friday, April 25


For a while life made me sad, which is why I didn't write as much. While cycling through town, I almost felt like a sponge, able to absorb everyone’s sadness, allowing everyone's tears inside my body, amplifying what I felt inside. It was as if everyone was grieving at the same time, and I was there to witness their grief, to record it and experience it as my own. After four years of completely ignoring his existence, I went to visit Oreste at his Italian coffeebar. Somehow I thought good coffee would cure me, but the only thing I noticed was how much older he looked. His eyes looked watery and there were some grey hairs in his beard. Of course he recognized me straight away. He made me some strong coffee and handed me the paper cup as if it were the Holy Grail. I felt grateful for Oreste’s presence, his ability to pronounce words like ‘mortadella’ and ‘provolone picante’, which made a normal sandwich sound like poetry. I told myself that this sadness would pass, that Oreste would always be there for me, selling his coffee and mortadella, that there was no reason to absorb everyone’s emotions, that I could just enjoy life like he did. While cycling home I remembered a quote from a movie, a quote which helped me to detach a bit: “Moments. Life consists of a series of moments. Let them go.”