Dear Valeria, I had in mind to write a letter to talk to her about my problem when, by pure chance, seeing a film by Sorrentino (Parthenope) I had the opportunity to listen to a song by Riccardo Cocciante who left me stucco: «It was already everything predicted / to the point that I knew / that today you would have told me / those things that you tell me / that we are not happier / that I am too good / that I want to make you a man. satisfy…”. In short, to make it short, Cocciante 50 years ago (the song is from 1975) had described perfectly what happened to me and, I imagine, even to many others. I had a nice love story with a very special person, unique for me. But then, suddenly, everything ended. I was not able to keep her tight to me, I was too little for her. And now, here, as Cocciante said, “I throw my bed on top and I hug my pillow …”. Perhaps you will tell me … “It is the classic story of a love that is turning off, with the protagonist who, while warning the change in the partner, deludes himself to be able to regain it or to be able to change things”. All already written and sung, nothing new under the sun. But he is sick of dogs. Do you think it is an example, mine, of immaturity?
Andrea (Trieste)
I think his is an example of pain, rather. I don’t know how much she has neither how long her relationship has ended (and honestly they would be two useful information …) but for the rest it seems to me that she is traveling on the narrow tunnel in which anyone of us, at least once in a lifetime, found herself stuck. Including listening to certain songs that at certain times seem to be made affixed to tear our skin and we know it but we listen to them the same. Even repeatedly. When you suffer for love, who knows why, a time comes when you do everything to suffer even more. You knead tears and melancholy with an inexplicable masochism. You are about to cry, you know that you are about to cry and you appliance all around in such a way that you cannot avoid crying: music, perfumes, places, photos … perhaps you unconsciously try to touch the bottom to go up or maybe it’s just the elaboration of mourning.
So Andrea, so comfortable appliances with handkerchiefs and soundtracks because there is nothing else to do. And only she will know when she has finished throwing toxins and memories out. Maybe, however, it re -emerges with more self -esteem and more critical sense: who said it was only all his fault?