Stories and News No. 721
While most of Italy debates and anguish before the feared hashtag #We_Are_Coming_O_Rome, in the world that remains life continues.
Most often must, otherwise the fridge remains empty.
This paradoxical composition of existences moves my imagination to the following story...
Once upon a time there was an island.
On the island there were two tribes.
The two tribes were different.
There is little to add.
Being different, they lived in a dissimilar way.
One had chosen the highest point of the island.
The top of the mountain.
And not for the sake of the good air.
The above inhabitants did not choose high places in obedience to the passion for something, but the fear of it.
And where is terror to influence your heart’s beating, rather than the interest in something new, there is no space to relax.
Hard to do, when you spend most of the time both eyes fixed on the horizon.
Awaiting the inevitable arrival of him.
The frightening enemy invader.
On the contrary, the other tribe lived below.
Even here, there is no much to be adduced.
In particular, the inhabitants had settled on the beach.
Worshipers of the sea in all its manifestations, they prayed the god of the waves, but not like we do it in our country.
For example, asking something or waiting for presents.
Cursing him for unsatisfied supplication.
Or claiming him to ban anything to anyone.
People below prayed the sea driven by a single sentiment, gratitude, and for one only reason, synthesized in a ritual phrase: thanks for the waves.
Not because they were experienced surfers.
They had also tried, but were unable.
Also here, nothing to highlight.
They thanked the waves because that was exactly how they saw themselves.
Going and coming people, no difference between the two things, just like the sea’s dance driven by the wind to die on the shore.
As a moment later to resurrect.
Without any need for miracles.
It came a day when the tribe above chief asked to meet with people below leader, and with all his companions went down to the valley.
“Listen”, he said nervous, “you and your peers are irresponsible. You have not raised barriers, neither made weapons and have not trained armies. The barbarians will come from the sea and will kill you all. “
“How do you know that?” the other asked.
“How do I know? It is written everywhere. We read in the stars, we pulled the shells on air and read the combination, we listened to the hoopoe, we sacrificed six goats and drank the blood, the shaman agrees too. Also the paper we found in the bottle says if I’ll take you I'll kill you. “
“That was my son. He was angry with the weevers because they stung him... “
“Well... I agree, but the rest is still true.”
The below tribe’s chief wanted to try to be polite and tried to leverage on his own apprehension.
So, for pure empathy, he pretended to be concern and pry.
“Tell me, please: how do these barbarians look like?”
“They are tall and hairy, they are uncivilized and have no respect for our culture and our traditions, they destroy everything and go away unpunished.”
“Dad...” the chief's son said in that moment, having heard everything, word by word.
“Dear, don’t you see I'm talking?”
“Yes, but I wanted to tell you that he's right.”
Everyone followed the right index finger of the child up to the mountain of the tribe above, whose houses were burning.
The hairy and uncivilized invaders really arrived.
They were called the Dutch.
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