Friday, October 27, 2017

The treasure at the end

Stories and News No. 1040

In Japan, a teenager took the Osaka government to court because her school ordered her to blacken her hair, since every student was obliged to.
The girl has natural brown hair and stated that due to the stress and anxiety for the absurd constraint, she has got various rashes on her scalp.
So, here's a story...

 


Once upon a time there was a sky.
No, ‘the’ sky, the perfect heavenly picture that has seen all of us passing through and, sooner or later, will tell everything.
I refer to something drawn from below, with no ambition to what makes the shapes and contours of the human creation worthy of the eye.
Read as well as the naive, moving courage to imagine the world as it should be.
In this sky, not ‘the’, everything existed according to the given order.
Each one respected the boundaries of their natural kingdom, as well as the times for closeness and distance, which are nothing but the same way to find out how mysterious, centripetal power holds together the universe.
I’m talking about love, obviously.
One, undoubtedly singular, day the unexpected host appeared on the scene.
The stars looked stiff, fused like a wall by the usual ingredients, disgust and fear.
So, invoked to take action, the sun scolded the immersive newcomer, using as the pretext the first dissonant note of rejection.
"Hey, you, what’s that red? It's not okay at all, get rid of it, or go away."
The new one was very much in favor of being accepted, and he decided far-fetched to obey the claim.
In the end, he thought, it was an easy renunciation, in exchange of the celestial citizenship.
However, as soon as he got back on his feet, he realized that the road to popular tolerance was still long and impenetrable.
"I tell you again," exclaimed the sun, glittered by the stars, "that orange is out of place. Take it away if you want to stay with us."
The stranger accused the blow and welcomed the invitation, even if unpleasant.
He wished to be part of the primary show, so, another sacrifice was worth it.
Nevertheless, when he reappeared in the ethereal square, the repression was repeated.
"Stop where you are, wicked," the sun screamed, readily backed by the cosmic guards, a spontaneous initiative for the sake of chromatic homogeneity. "That yellow is inappropriate. Delete it from you as soon as possible, if you love our space."
The poor creature chose to satisfy the bright sovereign.
Nevertheless, the right instant he was back on the sky, nothing changed.
"What’s that green?" the sun asked, immediately applauded by the Association for the protection of the identical colours. "Our eyes are scared by such scones."
So, he cut off another, natural part of himself.
It happens often, where loneliness is the weakest part you have.
Then, the possible new friend of all, came back into the game.
"You really don’t understand, right?!" shouted the angry sun, maybe also a bit amused by that, sad pastime to break the inert monotony of his existence. "Blue is allowed only to the sky. How you dare? Get rid of it right away, and do the same with that purple, which, among other things, is bad for theater."
"But how should I dress?" He finally found the strength to say.
"Simple," replied the moon, speaking in the name of all that sky, fortunately not ‘the’. "You have to cover yourself with the only colour we all are made of, that is, the white light."
The stranger moved away, with the bowed head, and reached the highest point his exasperation. Then, he turned his back for the last, wretched time to his irreplaceable, personal wealth.
Enough with red and orange, yellow and green, no more blue and green, the rainbow dissolved in the air as if it had never existed.
Therefore, no one was ever able to find out what unknown colours his treasure would have given us...


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Thursday, October 26, 2017

I'm lost

Stories and News No. 1039

A mysterious skull dating back to 6,000 years ago, found in Papua New Guinea in 1929, was thought to belong to an extinct human species.
Thanks to the latest research, scientists believe that it’s property of the oldest victim of a Tsunami, at least whose remains have been found so far.


I'm lost.
That's what I remember.
This is the only thing I know.
For sure.
I don’t recall why I was there, the moment the sea kidnapped me.
Kidnapped...
What contradictory and paradoxical use of the words we do, then, as today.

We live and ruin, with more or less impunity, a planet that is mostly covered with water. Well, we not only used to call it earth, but where the oceans properly reach our borders to demand what is right to them, and to get back the world which we first robbed them of, we consider them invaders of our peace.
Disturbers of a quiet existence.
Enemies of human civilization.
Yet, we should have waited for, since the ceaseless dance of the waves obeys the indispensable rule for every element that consciously, or not, it’s part of nature.
Whatever it’s moving away from you, or that you first reject, despite being life itself to reclaim that union, sooner or later will come back and will want everything.
The moment you fully understand it’s too late.
For me it was the embrace of shapes and colours, waves and lots of blue, as if the sky itself had swallowed me, to make me star among the stars, shining until the eye that usually discover them still wants to admire.
Six thousand years ago it took to name the unexpected guest in the global story.
Nevertheless, nothing seems you have added to the apparently minor tale, except for the reasons for the death.
The end, just the end of the journey, seems to affect my great-grandsons.
The moment that follows the last breath looks like a design from such simple contours to be depicted, and maybe you’re right.
What I don’t understand, however, it’s the utter lack of curiosity for the rest.
I’m referring to the real mystery, the one typically overlooked by too large eyes and too small and hasty watch hands.
Why was I there, that day?
Was there anyone who never stopped looking for me?
Is there anybody I can never find again?
And, above all, was I really alone, in the last instant I had?
How much time has passed since then.
How much time has been wasted and how much we are still throwing up with worthless questions, unless we all get, one way or the other, at the same conclusion: we know nothing or little about us and others.
Yet, every day, we cover each other with vain talk, except, of course, whispering the essentials.
I'm lost.
And now, thank you for listening to me, we both found ourselves...


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Wednesday, October 25, 2017

How racism is taught: Italian school textbook

Stories and News No. 1038

In these days, an Italian primary school textbook has been criticized about a controversial definition of immigrants.

Become protagonist, it's the title.
Become racist, the story’s subtext, as well as, the more or less unconscious, hidden exhortation.

"The presence of foreigners, mainly from Asian

countries and North Africa, has increased. Many are welcomed in refugee centers and they are clandestine, in other words, their stay in Italy is not authorized by law. In our cities immigrants often live in precarious conditions, they don’t find any job, albeit humble and heavy, and no dignified homes. Therefore their integration is difficult; for economic and social reasons, residents sometimes consider them a threat to their well-being and manifest intolerance to them."

It's too late, that's true.
The words have already sown, and the poisonous crop has already been sold.
The rotten fruit infected the near one, and so on.
Until we no longer understand the inspiration of such a wrong tale.
However, there is still time to start over.
To unlearn the bad lesson.
Writing together the new world, that has long been waiting for us to be seen and celebrated, narrated and listened to.

Become human, it’s the name of the new tale.
Become you, it’s the perfect synthesis, translating the useless words that hurt and divide.

"The presence of humans, mainly from Asian countries and North Africa, has increased. Many are welcomed in in humans centers, and they are really human, despite their stay in Italy is not authorized by law. In our cities, humans often live in precarious conditions, they don’t find any job, albeit humble and heavy, nor dignified homes. So our integration is difficult; for economic and social reasons, humans sometimes consider them a threat to their well-being and manifest intolerance towards other humans. "

That's how you begin to understand the absurdity of modern living, and that's exactly how you begin to become the person who tomorrow will show the intelligence and the courage.
To finally make it only human


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Friday, October 20, 2017

Pollution kills

Stories and News No. 1037

According to the most comprehensive global analysis to date, every year, at least nine million people are killed by pollution, and it costs us trillions of dollars, endangering the survival of human societies.
A little paradoxical contradiction, don’t you think? A phenomenon that is economically and at the same time humanly disadvantageous for all, yet neglected.
As if we could not see where the dirt, the refusal, the wrong word is, despite being exactly in front of our eyes, hidden in the sheet that contains the story about us...


Jack is a small creature.
Small as a letter, although he often feels bigger than it is, where he screams his own arrogance with each drop of ink passing through himself.
Mario thinks to be modern.

Because he is so, until proven otherwise.
He lives today before tomorrow, as if tomorrow was nothing more than today you are writing… yesterday.
Yes it is, forgetting about what yesterday was, he only cares about the current page, at best. At worst, the single, tiny portion of the row hosting him.
Exactly, hosting, but he would say he occupies, as ‘mine’, ‘only mine’, ‘forbidden to those who approach’, ‘do not dare to break the sacred space between letter and letter’.
Social grammar must be respected, because it’s what gives order and security to the tale.

If you’re looking for the meaning and, above all, the moral, search elsewhere.
Because that's how people like Mario do.
The accountability is always to those up there, the supposed divinities with the pen or the keyboard in their hands.
Mario cares about the shape of things, because he has always lived a perennially two-dimensional existence, self-fulfilling himself by not worrying about the consequences of common presence in the global text.
That’s why, at each instant, it is prodigal that what contains and guides his path between paragraph and paragraph keeps the splendor of the very first day.
This is his job, the only purpose he pursues.
Mario shrinks words as if they were jewels, seeing the latter as something different from other, conventional sets of letters.
That's how the car shines like a mirror, and the windscreen is perfectly free from dust, the seats also glitter at night, and the dashboard steals the scene to the firmament.
He does the same with the air conditioner and the boiler, the cellphone screen and every wonderful word that has made his life full.
Of words.
Because that’s what Mario is.
It's like a small letter, condemned with others like him to be part of a speech he ignores from beginning to ending, which can be virtuous or crazy, yet he is there.
Every day he gets up from the ugly dictionary which he has prematurely buried himself in, and he joins the others, to reach the period moved by comfortable inertia.
Sometimes, though, Mario makes a dream, which can be a nightmare too, it depends on the degree of freedom of his fantasy.
So he imagines to be something better than just one letter, and even a word.
For a fleeting instant, he sees the poor page, the only one that really supports everyone, almost destroyed by the enormous amount of stupid delusions which we are polluting it with.
It’s the right moment when each one of us has got the chance to leave our march to nothing.
One letter out is enough and every word, rich and powerful, fearful and dangerous, will become evident in everyone's eyes.
As the wrong one…


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Thursday, October 19, 2017

There was an attack

Stories and News No. 1036

‘Attack’.
This is the word, but it’s not enough, in spite of the normal consequences within images and sounds of screams and smoke everywhere, thanks to a good monitor with fine resolution.
‘There was an attack’.

This is the incipit, but it’s not enough too, although now well-known in the mere story as in the more or less rite comments.
‘There was an attack and there were dead’.
The latter is the fundamental, further addition, for the sake of completeness, but also not to miss the driving, however cynical, element, that is the tragic count of the disappeared, at the expense of the negligible survivors.

Well, did you ever think about that?
The number of deceased is always more relevant, rather than the loving ones who will inherit discomfort and memories, who, according to simple logic, should be infinitely more.
Nevertheless, we should have some interest for tomorrow and the next day people, for the protagonists outside the newspaper, who don’t make a news, except for a bomb.
Anyway, ‘there was an attack’ and ‘there have been many dead and injured’, finishing the whole picture and making clear the drawing, causing public reaction before the human madness of such mad humanity, now interchangeable, inseparable and acclaimed synonyms.
However, I could also reveal the terrible number, a scary one.
To bring extra shock, maybe I could describe the ripped off lives one by one, murmuring slowly.
Three hundred... up to the wounded, the witnessed meat, the eyes from the destroyed horizon.
I could talk about sold weapons and political corruption.
Great powers and great interests.
USA and Europe, washing hands and consciousness with fallen water.
‘An attack’, yes, but it has already happened.
‘There was an attack’, but it was predictable.
‘There was an attack’ and ‘there were lots of dead and wounded’, but that's how it works.
Otherwise, how to ignore it?
Well, did you even think about this?
We’re getting used to mass massacres, paying more attention when the number of victims is inversely proportional to the mystery of the motive, and the TV share goes up together with advertising revenues before the detective anchorman dealing with the family mystery.
However, despite ‘there was an attack’ where more than three hundred died, and only a few days later thousands showed their courage and dignity for the personal sorrow, it’s not a story able to touch our empathy.
How much does the latter worth, then, if hell on earth showed its face in Paris as in London?
What fierce mistake is concealed in our conscience to allow us such inhuman distinction?
Well, the day the innocent blood of Somalia on the global screen will be the same colour to us than every part of this illusory free country, it will mean that we’ll be on the right path to win this incumbent, world civil war against ourselves.


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Wednesday, October 18, 2017

The situation is desperate

Stories and News No. 1035

Daphne Caruana Galizia, a Maltese investigative journalist committed against corruption was killed on 16 October in a car bomb attack.
In recent times she had been pessimistic about her own country, and watching her premature end, her enemies had good reasons to fear her work.
In the last post on her blog, the day of her death, Daphne concluded the article with a phrase that is incredibly emblematic: There are crooks everywhere you look now. The situation is desperate…


The situation is desperate.
Of course it is.
In the right time.
At the very moment when the best life explodes and what should remain intact forever breaks up.
Like the perfect memories of even more worthwhile instants to relive.

As if perfection itself was inadequate.
I write it, then.
I'm writing that the situation is desperate.
To them.
Yes, to you, wherever you’re hiding.
Now I’m looking at you.
It should not be easy at all, there, under the mask and the dress, both overflowed.
Nothing real, nothing humanly right.
I write it and read it: the situation is really desperate.
Being afraid of everything.
Shadows and pointed fingers.
Looks and dreaded weapons.
Accusations and camouflaged faces.
More than anything else, words.
How do the latter must hurt, where the heart has not life anymore.
Where everything is silent.
I write it, read it and only in moments like this I fully understand it: the situation has never been desperate as now.
That is, on the day when you reach the culmination of your fright.
Panic overdose leading to the most illusory escape route that a chronic villain can conceive.
Trying to remedy your own painful existence by erasing the sun from the scene.
Hoping that the unbearable anguish will dissolve with the hated light, as well as the embarrassing evidence of your moral putrefaction.
Nevertheless, that’s a sin of supreme naivety.
How could you convince yourself that you can remove the most beloved star from the humane system, simply by deleting it from your own, tiny drawing?
It must be terribly desperate, the situation, to fall into such a blunder.
That’s why the infantile, obtuse devourer of brave hearts, overwhelmed by liveliness, has reduced the sheet to shreds.
However, as for the wonderful life that literally represents, each piece of glare is a word that sow and will sprout, sooner or later, to affirm once again, with noble and admirable strength: the situation is desperate, to you, thinking you might kill the truth with a bomb…


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Friday, October 13, 2017

A shocking discovery

Stories and News No. 1034

In Uppsala, the oldest Swedish university has identified Arabic characters which apparently represent the words "Allah" and "Ali" woven in Viking burial robes.
The researchers defined the discovery of such engravings, silver on silk fabrics, as 'staggering'.
Well, that’s nothing, dear friends from Uppsala.
Just follow the story...


Listen, listen.
On the other side of the world, and especially of the reassuring logic, there is another university.
I cannot tell you the name and not even the town, otherwise they’ll be at risk.
You know, their discovery doesn’t only exceed the Swedish one, but could also cause the researchers lots of serious difficulties, as attacks, self-attacks, boycotts under form of attacks, Mexican butchers in the form of authorized clearance, preventive, pacific and defensive wars, cuts of funds, just cuts, other attacks, but only for mental insanity, hacker intrusions, and also rats ones, which will not affect the elections but are not good at all, right?
Are you sitting?
Great, because here the stuff is terrific.
In fact, it seems that in this important institution, the oldest in the nation (also because the only one, but they boast themselves anyway), have built a time machine.
“No way,” somebody might exclaim.
“It’s a lie!” Someone else could scream.
“Really?” Another one might say.
Well, I take the opportunity to heartily thank the latter and all his peers.
Otherwise, how would the storytellers of this world survive without them?
On the other hand, I don’t want to question the veracity of this story, at least not in the middle of the live show, right?
Besides, the plot is still in the appetizer zone, as the time machine has been assembled by the researchers decades ago, but obviously they have not mentioned so far for the reasons mentioned above, I cite only the rats, you know what I mean.
"Let's try it first, dear colleagues," suggested the head of the team, the favorite Chancellor’s son, but mother’s orphan, so tolerated. "May the sky, and above all my father, protect us from what might go out."
So they did, our heroic time explorers.
They've found a lot of magnificence, you know?
So, as soon as they read the announcement by their Nordic rivals, they thought: "We cannot stand still with the pens in our hands."
This is what it is, the impious heirs of Aitch-Gee - as they simply use to call Herbert George Wells, inevitably their favorite author, they have invented the extraordinary seconds-burning machine, but still prefer handwriting instead of PC keyboards.
You know these geniuses how they work…
So, they chose the right discovery among the many.
Humans on the horizon.
This is the title of the report.
Subheading: when they love each other.
In the body of the work the unnamed researchers have revealed some little-tricky engravings on the clothes of a marriage.
Nevertheless, I am not referring to a particular union, exceptional in its eccentricity, but the festive clothes of an incredibly common moment, proving that today's extraordinary is only one of the innumerable normalities of life coming to light too early.
Not just words, but entire phrases, as 'wonderfully different', 'no one is equal by fear', 'all different by nature'.
One among them, amongst others, will be the most shocking to us, not them.
'The past will never divide us... how much the future will bring us together…'



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Thursday, October 12, 2017

The Rule of 46

Stories and News No. 1033

Ahmed Timol, an anti-apartheid activist, was arrested in Johannesburg in October 1971. After five days of detention, his death was officially decreed for suicide because of a fall from the police headquarters building.
The Court of Pretoria now brings light on the truth.
The South African court said Timol was assassinated by police officers, in a historic ruling, welcomed by applause.
It took 46 years...


 
Rejoice.
I’m talking to you, my friend, that present time's law murders with deafening ease, and modern chronicle’s silence humiliates to the most obstinate recess of your soul.
Exult, since the unjust hourglass has a heart.
A slow and awkward one, but it beats.
Incredible in its pervading obsession in moving from the most servile side of the balance, the one where unqualified it polishes the golden wheels of the triumphal chariot.
Despite that, it has a logic, from this day.
A virtuous norm, finally, to be entrusted by the simplest rationality, naturally unable to accept the worst abuses, those, even if falling from above, are well tolerated down there.
The 46’s rule, so we'll call it.
That is, Timol's theorem, but whispering his own name.
It has happened too often in the past, that the late answer could be just a blunder.
Indeed, it's anyway a sort of dream, an open-minded one.
The admirable axiom has a magical number, like any noble equation, those which the perfect figures of the firmament are based on.
Read as well as the sparkling stars still waiting to rest in peace.
Don’t tell me you ignore that, come on.
Did you really think that there was only the theory of relativity?
But that's just a way to explain them.
Looking at them requires a lot more.
The luminous dots that, after every sunset, continue to shine on the auburn blue, are not at all only echoes of a far-flung light from asters that have just disappeared.
They are questions perpetually addressed to mankind who still have the courage to lift their heads and carry them, despite the distance’s weight and size’s deception.
Forty-six, this is the numeral that will give hope and horizon to the creatures impudently crushed by the overbearing, public narration.
Delight, sacrificial victim of the hypocritical global picture.
Because at most forty-six, the iniquitous whips will be.
So the days of unlawful imprisonment, as much the silenced acts of violence.
Legal offenses and times that people will turn their eyes to the wicked wretchedness, slaps and spits, recoverable and indelible wounds, memories and nightmares, sleepless nights and erased days, lost feelings, and all missing occasions, days, months, years, they will all have a limit, the maximum of the free penalty, the worst you could expect from the most inhumane beings.
Forty-six, the rule, its number.
Meanwhile, as the unacceptable suffering it contains, once written and pronounced loud, we’ll strive to make the formula perfect, reducing the figure to zero...


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Wednesday, October 11, 2017

The best of us

Stories and News No. 1032

On October 15, elections will take place in Austria and the country seems to be heading to the Right, with the political agenda focused mainly on immigration and Islam, because of the persuasion’s pressing, monotonous and surgical action by xenophobic coalitions.
Nothing new, of course, since for decades this is the common narrative of electoral campaigns almost all over the world
.



Once upon a time there was a table.
A table nowadays
entirely covered by disconnected from reality sentences and delusional, semantic eyesores, allegedly proved by the abused popular opinion.
Lots of invented and manipulated tales treated like real news, fused with astute ignorance in a confused, imaginary wall, where everyone can write everything, provided you might scream it.
Now, give me a favor, do it for me.
Get up from your chair, find an excuse for your jailer, the little, big brother who knows how to falsify his height.
Use any pretense to anything, pretend a disease, a persistent, human need.
I think something human will be perfect.
Back up and looks at what's happening on the board of this despicable game of life and words.
Where the lives of others count as words and the latter that concern life even less.
In order to concentrate, if you prefer, keep the headphones as well.
Just music, instrumental, no voices, that chords have never killed anyone.
Sometimes, even saved.
Here it is.
Do you see it now?
Can you see what the enemy inside us is doing?
Do you recognize his trick, now?
It's always the same, right?
Everywhere and always it never changed.
The dull, unscrupulous, as scrupulous as arid shell looks inside and seeks.
Easily, in the emptiness of a just formally alive shape, he looks and finds.
The cursed card, the most arduous reasons, the degenerate and degenerating cause, the stress-free way to give priority to himself, the less complicated slogan to pronounce among those to be ashamed of.
So, that's right.
He tries to whisper it, in the silence of his ready to be dismantled consciousness.
What happens?
Anything.
No protest.
No reaction, solid and decisive, to intimidate as much as the voice, even before the hatred he will bring.
Then, the loudness will rise again and again, as long as it will be a deafening and mortifying chorus.
Dedicated to those who obviously didn’t show before, and now, more than ever now, they should come back to light.
Because that's how it works, the worst of us.
It will do everything to destroy us.
As long as we’ll going out, strongly.
With the very best of us.


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Friday, October 6, 2017

Dying for too much living for a little

Stories and News No. 1031

In Japan, job inspectors have determined that journalist Miwa Sado’s death at the age of 31 in July 2013 was caused by overwork.
The woman, who was employed at the headquarters of the country's public broadcaster, Nippon Hōsō Kyōkai, during the month preceding his death for heart failure had recorded 159 hours of extraordinary and enjoyed just two days of rest.
The case has been made public by its former employer only this week
.



Yes, I know what you’re thinking now.
That's what they all think afterwards.
I would do it also myself, in your place, if I could.
Yes, if I could.
Too late, right?
For me, not for you, as they say.
This is the fate of the ‘too much’ of this world.
They are a useful cover for ‘a lot’, not to mention the little.
We, martyrs of time, can only envy the latter.
If I had bigger eyes to find out the deception, like the cartoon characters, that look more like you than us and that's fine.
Because it’s the classic nature of the not required, but best sellers things.
Where many like them, too many, the real you worth nothing.
At best, a little.
This is in fact the core of the whole discussion, right?
That's our value on the market.
Traces of zero that dance in the void by rejecting each other.
So fast, and apparently tireless.
That’s how the negligible dot becomes a line, the invisible ones gain their story and the star crosses the sky and make speak and dream about her.
If I was satisfied with the sufficiency.
The living minimum.
It would have been something more than the little I thought.
You've already got it, right?
I hope.
I would like to return to the starting point.
That bloody day when the shot exploded in my head, scaring the natural melodies to death.
The nuances in the numbers of the gray misters with a black heart.
Never too much in the silence of the lucky ones, surviving the witch called practicality.
Serenity, your name is slow.
Because so it should be said.
In order that in the midst of the dust raised by anxious souls to win the golden podium, under the underdeveloped back slings, it can overcome the shame of being perfect and show itself.
Rejoice, then, if you’re still last in this walk, behind the crowd race, where the money in the pocket and career bounties, top honors and side nudges, large desks and comfortable armchairs are never too much for the little, at the very end, when the curtain illusion closes.
Yes, I know what you’re saying now.
That's logical, right?
Doing it later.
Me too, like you, I would smile.
Maybe with a mere refinement, in my case.
Thinking about the idea that there is too much in this passable and fragile life to waste it for so little…


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Thursday, October 5, 2017

Right to Dream Citizenship

Stories and News No. 1030

Because Citizenship, before being a Right, has been and still is a Dream for many...

I’m talking to you.
Yes, you, who’s saying no to Citizenship.
“It’s not a priority,” you explain.
Or, maybe, you’d never want to see that time, what you really think.
You used to say that what was born here is not necessarily from here.
That’s not enough to belong to this land.
Maybe you're right, you know?
Look at freedom.
It was born with you.

It's from this world, but that’s not what we've built.
Prisons and bars, boundaries and walls, those are our actual flesh, what our nightmares are made of.
But freedom… you have to choose it, because you are struggling for it, you commit yourself at any costs, even to never touch it.
And what about justice?
It’s rooted in the same place where you came to light.
However, it would have been great, if it were engraved next to our name, at the very first registry.
Perhaps we would not need so many words to change.
Imaginably, these ones wouldn’t be here, now.
What is right is just like a word that has passed away, that hardly and with sacrifice, tenacity and courage, you have to enter again between lies and deceit, abuse and selfishness, claiming the space trapped by traitors arguments, inevitably finding enemies among the manipulators of stories.
And what can you tell me of humanity?
I suppose you see the most admirable of paradoxes.
This is our species, this is the category, the specification, and the dangling common to billions of creatures over the time that universe has given us so far.
The human being, acting as such, interacting with each other in the familiar way, how every other living community we share the horizon does, living in the present with the sacred priority of preserving us, never just you.
Can you really argue that such perfection of nature, which undoubtedly was born with us, survives during the infancy?
We were born human, of course.
But do we remain so?
Never enough, as history teaches us.
Well, if all this was not enough, dream.
Or think about what you dream, which is the same.
Visualize with me any unlikely chance of our imagination.
Among what might be tangible monsters and, inside the same extent, miracles of blood and emotions.
Remember every escape from the horrors of an unwanted life.
All the poetic brackets in the middle of the usual war.
The personal paradise, drawn with hopeful hand in seemingly endless nights.
The truth is that all the dreams of the world are born here.
Born in the most fragile of our path.
But how much would you like them to have a citizenship right in your life?
What would you give in exchange for, having them right now in your current existence even a few minutes?
Take your time and think about it.
Every wonder that has in the past become common memory and has made us proud, every extraordinary thing that has improved the existence of the most, any kind of novelty that has enriched the present and above all the future of a generation, are from here, the world.
They were born on this earth and this was always their only starting point.
However, despite everything, they still are here for one reason.
Because someone has decided to fight for them, embracing them tightly.
By avoiding that, just like most of our most beloved dreams, they would fly away…


Read more Stories about diversity
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Wednesday, October 4, 2017

The Guns Doggerel Story

Stories and News No. 1029

Following the tragic events in Las Vegas, when the United States comes back to discuss the right to guns, I read that also in Italy fatal dead from accidental bullets are coming on the news.
Though with a lot of difficulty, I try to put myself in the footsteps of such insane principle’s supporters.
Obviously, with a story, playing with words, which could sometimes hurt, but rarely kill…


Let's imagine I had a gun and I thought it was a sacrosanct right to have it.
So I’d have it.
However, I'd not be going to have it just for that, huh?
It’s rhetorical.
I’d have a gun because I’d love to have it.
I'd love to have it because I’d know.

I’d known that if I wanted, wherever I could, I would use it.
Accordingly, just for this page, I have a gun, and I know it can hurt.
I can hurt even without it, if you know what I mean.
And it could without me.
How can we treat that?
What should we do in case he had a gun and I didn’t?
Therefore, I have a gun and I have the right to defend myself.
From him.
He might hate me, he could rob me, he could kill me, he might try to take my place.
Because he might be my enemy.
As a result, revolving stories and subjects…
He has got a gun.
He has a gun and he considers it an indispensable right.
So he does.
But that's not the main reason, you know?
That’s just formal.
Because people like him, they might have it anyway.
People like him have got a gun because they like it, as me, but they love much more to use it, whenever they want, as long as it was against me.
Especially if they knew I didn’t have a gun.
How do we treat that?
What should we do if I didn’t have a gun and he knew?
How could I defend myself from those like him?
Consequently, mixing delusional reasonings and reasonable delusions…
He and I have a gun.
Because we both defend it as an inalienable advantage.
As a result we have got it.
But don’t think that's the principal cause.
Take the word for granted.
He and I have a gun because we like to have it.
We like it because we know that each of us has it, and everyone of us could use it.
At any moment, anywhere, for all imaginable – or not, reasons.
He and I have a gun, and how much it could hurt is what we know best.
But how do we deal with that?
What should we do if he and I didn’t have a gun, and you knew it?
If you had a gun, how could we defend ourselves from you?
To be continued, as they say, until death comes…


Read more Stories to think about
Buy my English edition books Italian Short Stories, a dual language book, Climate change stories, a dual language book, Stories of diversity, a dual language book and Multicultural stories for kids.
Listen my song Wolves
Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
Storytelling videos with subtitles