Friday, December 22, 2017

We are nature

Stories and News No. 1060

Mount Taranaki in New Zealand will receive the same legal rights as a person, becoming the third geographical part of the country to get a "legal personality".
With the spreading of the surprising, good news, of the fundamental words narrating it - as rights and person, the consequences became a story, of simple shape and dreamy content...

I am also like Taranaki, said a girl child of the traveling species, the ones with a delicate ticket, who leads to heaven, but only if someone designs it for them. I am a hill, not a mountain, but one day I will become one, if you’ll give me enough space on the map.

Me too, like her, exclaimed her mother, a little older than her daughter, a typical trait of those who are hungry for life. I am a lowland, I give peace and relief to tired limbs, I see the sky and I’m not ashamed to staring at.
Taking advantage of the courage of the two, the father join the show. I am a lake and I reflect those
I love, I transcribe dear images and movements with my heart, I am a mirror of the present, and I accompany all hope towards the center of the world, where the surface breeze becomes generous.
Brave aspirations, of a family with an easy imagination, the most obstinate to go beyond bricks and timeless words walls.
Thus, the game expands like a simple and light story, which doesn’t need to push to overcome gravity and logic.
I am a flower, vigorously affirms the little man who digs through the waste in search of the only possible treasure, the edible one. Water me and I will no longer need to steal the remains of normal living.
I am a river, whispers one of the many, too many victims of abuse, which slips away and caresses earth affirming presence and awareness of what has been taken away. Look at me, don’t be afraid to get wet in my fragile memory, just remember and let it reach the sea to finally find justice and restitution.
I am a cave, big and spacious, proudly shouts the lonely man among the lonely crowd. It's cold here, there's not much light left now, but I'm still a person.
We all are, others say.
We are people like Taranaki, claim the too young voices of working lives, where they should only laugh until crying.
We are people, remember the mistreated creatures under the blanket of the so-called civil life, guilty of not yet discovered identities by myopic, current perspective.
Then, just for a moment, the buzz becomes lighter, because often on the impervious route, common memory and solidarity are loyal even backwards.
Silence, now, when everyone remembers.
They too, who have been erased from the inconvenient story, they were people.
On the bottom of the sea and the hot earth, we have buried millions of mountains and lakes, hills and rivers, sublime shapes and perfect colors.
They and us, we deserve your best pages.
Because exactly like you.
All.
We are nature.


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Thursday, December 21, 2017

You ask me too much

Stories and News No. 1059

You ask me too much, that’s what it is, gosh.
She said that as the Christmas season approaches, luxury jewelry brands will prepare, like every year, for their usual binge of money.
So? I replied, without giving her a look.
She said, always the girl, that maybe this year I will consider their supporting role, although indirectly, in favor of the Rohingya genocide and join tens of thousands of people who ask retailers of high-end jewelry to end to their relations with the Burmese army.
What? I told her with my head and especially the brain frozen.
Then the girl said that for the military in Burma, the involvement in the huge export of gems is an enormous flow of income. She adds that almost all the top quality jades and 95% of the rubies in the world come from those countries.

You ask me too much, I repeat, too much, gosh.
She said: don’t trust stuff from that brand because they sell weapons where they kill each other every day.
And you stop buy weapons, gosh!
Don’t read that newspaper, she said, because behind there is them, who are in league with her, which is friendly with him.
But I don’t read newspaper anymore…
I have no time, gosh, I have no more time, you ask me too much, I still replied without touching her with my eyes.
Indeed, she said to wear that shirt because it has the right word on, which helps those ones, and then put the hat with that emblem, use the pin of those others and then let’s go everybody on the streets, in the cold, to demonstrate for those against them.
WTF! It's not my fault if these noble gatherings always come on Saturday afternoons, gosh.
I work, I screamed with my head still bowed, I work all week and I have the right to stretch the legs in the weekend, am I wrong?
Tell me, girl, am I wrong or not?
You ask me too much, this is what it is.
She said not to cry out with her.
And who should I cry with?
You're the one who breaks my b…
Don’t go to the cinema to see that movie, she said after, because it’s a non-educational one and takes advantage of people's ignorance.
But it makes me laugh, do you understand, girl?
I need to laugh at the end of the day, just because you ask too much.
Don’t buy the oil-car and eat organic, she also said, don’t waste water and don’t use plastic, she insists, the girl insists.
Go to the theater and read books, she said too, buy with heart and give the rest to the last ones, as if the measure was not already filled.
That’s the time I used to explode, despite my mind is always distracted.
You ask me too much, girl, you are asking me too much.
Finally the girl said: why don’t you look at me when you speak?
How can I do that? I replied desperately.
You ask me too much, if you think I can talk looking at you, and at the same time, in random order, update the status on Facebook, respond to the thirty-eight messages on even more WhatsApp groups, kindly share the required likes everywhere, follow and sign all invitation to do so, without interrupting the uploading of photos and words, videos and pieces of me that are gradually erasing myself from the world.
You ask me too much, girl, because everything I had…
I've already sold it...


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Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Great mothers stories

Stories and News (short)

Susan Bro, mother of Heather Heyer, the Charlottesville activist who was killed while protesting against an extreme right-wing gathering in Virginia, before those who asked her why she's struggling to fight for social justice in memory of her daughter, has recently declared: "Am I supposed to sit at home and cry?"
In one sentence, I read a lot.
Within the latter, an affirmation of admirable dignity.
Immense pain transformed into equally vast daring.
A question to those who have intellect, and above all conscience to understand.
And do something…


Read also today Stories and News: Stories of heroes on wrong story’s right side

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Stories of heroes on wrong story’s right side

Stories and News No. 1058

As Lorena Gazzotti said on The Guardian, activists and NGOs that defend migrants rights will be remember 2017 as the year when they were targeted by legal systems in Europe and North Africa, ending up being considered as real criminals.
In fact, the authorities on both sides of the Mediterranean want to silence those who are uncomfortable witnesses to the brutality of the border police.


Once upon a time there was a world.
No, indeed, there is.
There was even before, but there was no evidence, or maybe the pages were burned before reaching most of the eyes.
Also there was, indeed there is, even before, although there should not be, a world told by History.

A planet of many lives and shores, divided by a sea of lies, of thousands of existences and landings, lots of small stories that survived the journey with courage and dedication almost like the children of the late in coming future.
In such a place of multiple experiences and divisions, they were there, heroes by mistake.
They were called criminals, in the mad logic made by easy keyboards and bloodthirsty pc’s.
Everything had been accomplished a long ago, the damage was already visible and tangible.
It would have been enough to take a look at the grotesque outcomes in the aftermath of the usual popular choices, also read as the democratic ticket to pay for the usual, old dictatorship of the land's riches.
Incredible, the scenario.
Incredible, statements and decisions of the chosen monsters.
As much as the absolute lack of awareness inside the inhuman genre about the serious risk on the horizon.
By that, the bestselling stories were incredible too.
The crazy fiction where who saves the helpless is drawn as the villain of the plot, those who write it as people worthy of guiding others, and who entrusts the common destiny to such characters is a mature, angrily disenchanted and coldly pragmatic person.
The problem is that where those plans are imposed from above, with the paradoxical deception that the inspiration comes exactly from the opposite direction, they act like pandemic viruses.
Everything can be contaminated and poisoned to death.

However, it’s not the breath to stop, but something more farsighted: the underrated ideal of a virtuous act.
The first to fall under the blows were the fairy tales.
People began to consider the hunter who saves Little Red Riding Hood and the grandmother from the wolf as the usual, silly good-hearted, unable to accept that the ravenous predator ate in peace the weak flesh along its path.
The Fairy Godmother was accused of witchcraft and threatened with virtual burning, for allowing a bribe like Cinderella to dream of a far better tomorrow than a normal, congenital slavery.
The seven dwarfs were even branded on the various, viral and ruling social networks as a subversive and dangerous terrorist organization, guilty of kidnapping the naive Snow White, to brainwash her with dated statements about the rights of miners and alleged abuse of usurpers and their ally mirror.
Then it touched the real and indisputable heroes of the past, as Anna Frank, Martin Luther King and Gandhi, almost erased in the failed public memory.
Finally, after having infected everything and everyone, the mystification accomplished the whole turn and returned to the starting point, the now damaged gazes.
Watch them now, imagine them at this precise moment in the act of looking with disdain at the heroes on the right side of the wrong story.
Please, do the same and if what you feel is exactly what they feel, it means that you are not just reading the story of this strange world.
You live there, just like me.
But you have not noticed it yet…


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Friday, December 15, 2017

Stories of women killed in Mexico

Stories and News (short)

According to a new, recent report by the Interior Department, the National Women's Institute and the UN agency, the number of women murdered in Mexico has risen sharply in the last decade, in the middle of the war on drugs.
In particular, of over 50,000 killing of women since 1985, almost a third took place over the past six years.
I wish male readers out there will tolerate and understand what I’m going to say, but when a woman is murdered, much more is killed than the mere flesh and blood that were asking just for life.
Because when a woman is erased from history, it happens also to the future she would have donated, the present she would have taken care of, and the past she would have claimed.
It's like taking the earth off from the sky, one piece at a time.
It is like depriving the sun of the best which to be reflected in.
It creates unnatural loneliness that leaves behind madness and misery.
With every women martyrdom, we all become smaller and more alone.
This is another war that we cannot lose...



Read also today Stories and News: When help comes from above

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When help comes from above

Stories and News No. 1057

Yesterday there was a dramatic rescue operation by the Turkish coast guard in the Aegean Sea of at least 51 people who were stranded on the rocks while trying to cross Greece.
When help comes from above...


When help comes from above, we get it early, yes it is.
Because so we live the moment.
With head lifted towards the missing light and an anxious gaze of seeing the clouds of our evil fate broken by miraculous remnants of supporting humanity.
When help comes from above, it's a big feeling, in the heart and in the outstretched hands.
But even when it comes to the side, or even from the bottom.

It happens more often than you can imagine, you know?
It doesn’t make news or even history.
On the contrary, when from higher levels, living empathy becomes flesh, well, it’s a magical precedent that changes everyone's story.
Of the saved and the savior.
The first cannot help but rejoice at the idea that there really is someone, up there, in the earthly, and more than ever terrestrial, paradise beyond the impassable boundaries and last minute walls.
A virtuous scenario that gives comfort to the hopes hit by daily suffering reveal itself from nothing.
Well, good news, since it’s worth trusting the likeness of soul and body.
We will not be perfect like the rest of the creatures, faithful daughters of mother nature, but there is still something to bet on.
That’s the wonderful message.
Because when the help comes from above, it takes very little to define it as such.
Even a non-hostile look is honey for the heart.
A smile is worth a billion possible moments of common peace, read it as the official currency of the horizon-less humans.
Even words that don’t exclude and honestly draw the contours of the unknown beings landing from the wrong shore, they sound pleasing.
Indeed, when the story becomes inclusive of the inevitable reasons of others, well, thank you.
Whether you come from the Olympus to the north of mere survival, we thank you.
Since this is help from above too.
Nonetheless, it’s always a matter of simple perspectives and if you turn the story over, like the world, everything seems clearer.
When you help those below.
When we help those below, compared to us, it’s because we have remembered them in advance, aware of the reverse side of the fortuitous medal.
Because in that way, we live the present moment, on each side of the latter.
With the head always attentive to those who don’t get accounts of excess light, which we enjoy only for presumed birthright.
That's why if you help those who are at the lowest point of fate, it's a big feeling, in the heart and in the outstretched hands.
That’s how all of us, above or below, become equivalent, and only what really matters remains, that is, we all.


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Thursday, December 14, 2017

The poverty of choice

Stories and News No. 1056
  
My name is Kaimah, I'm ten years old and I'm poor.
I didn’t choose it, as I didn’t decide to come into this world.
I cannot do anything about it and I will do nothing with what doesn’t depend on me.
I have no time to waste with what I cannot change.
The World Health Organization and the World Bank declared yesterday that almost one hundred million people in the world are forced every year to daily choose between health and food, education and basic necessities.
For the rest of humanity, a hundred is just a number, as well as a million times as much.
Greatness doesn’t matter, unless it’s one and that one is you.
In this case, I choose, each day, each week.
Monday I ate, yes, I had to, I couldn’t help it.
A little and with joy, with extreme calm and attention to every crumb that could run away.
I love you, tiny piece of edible life.
Don’t leave me, stay with me, in me.
You’ll see that I won’t waste every gift from you.
And I’ll know how to appreciate the memory.
I’ll be faithful to you, I won’t fail to pay tribute and respect, and you come back, please.
Come back soon.
Tuesday empty stomach, it’s the day of fever.
The enemy in the head that is always present.
No, it's not fear, that's your stuff.
The forehead simmers and the sweat imperfects the temples making the skin shine and highlights my eyes.
Life, that’s what my pupils scream, we want life, we deserve it, we demand it and we’ll do our best to stay close to it.
Come on, dear medicine that rained from the sky, defeat the monster that gives heat in exchange for precious strength, and forgive me too, infamous presence, I don’t hate you.
You too, fever, have received a bad fate and you cannot avoid it.
Go, now, free my body.
I know you'll come back, but I hope as late as possible.
Wednesday and you're already here, dear damn fellow, as well as hunger, but today is the moment of study.
A book, only one a year, worn pages, lessons devoured as stanzas of a poem of absolute love.
It’s you, master words, my ticket to the future, my wings of wisdom and ambition which to fantasize with about the best tomorrow.
Thursday everybody stop, since water is in the house.
It’s a dream that becomes liquid, the true natural miracle, an eternal birthday gift for a party that we’ll regret all sooner or later.
From that moment on, we began to breathe and vibrate.
“And water was,” this is the true sentence, but it wasn’t understood and as usual we exchanged the reflection of ourselves for an immortal star.
Friday is the day of work, the seeds are here, the earth waits, we do with her.
And when the hands are tired, the fingers felt by the scratches and the back aching, I lift my head up and close my eyes.
I see the promise and I trust the sound of the wind.
Sooner or later the fruit will show itself to us and we‘ll have what belongs to us.
We cannot have felt so much for nothing, and if this is what fate wanted, let it go to the devil too.
Saturday with hunger and fever, nothing to read and the thirst that bites, the sack of seeds without seeds and nothing beautiful to expect the day after.
Think of it now, when you open your eyes on a day like this and you will complain of boredom or simple loneliness.
Think about it and look at me, because on Saturday I will play anyway.
Because I've come this far and I deserve to smile.
Yet, to contradict what has been said so far, Sunday the body yields, the soul too, and I am there, motionless in my bed.
No, I tell myself, I cannot do it again.
Then my mother arrives, she puts a hand on my face and calls me with her velvety voice.
I lift the eyelids with deliberate slowness, and I see myself in her eyes that have lived the same fate.
I am the promise, I am the choice, hers.
My name is Kaimah, I'm only ten years old and I know, I've been condemned to poverty.
Between food and health, study and other essentials of living, here’s the poverty of choice.
But I don’t choose poverty.
I decided that when I grow up.
I’ll be alive...


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Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Brave women stories

Stories and News (short)

Guatemalan women have decided to face the giants of Canada guilty of terrible human rights violations.
The Maya Q'eqchi indigenous women's group has launched a legal challenge that could put the vast mining interests of the Canadian giant in serious danger.
In the documents we read of violence and abuse, illicit expropriations and houses burned by security officers.
It seems it is the first time that someone stands up against the mines corporations in Canada.
Is it perhaps a coincidence that this courage is once again from women and, I add, indigenous ones?



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Diversity story for kids video

Sunset is the fairy tale of a kid born among two different worlds, like Africa and Europe could be. Between two colours, two diverse cultures and kind of living. Indeed, as the true sunset, he exists right in the middle of everything, between Night and Day, getting the best gifts accepting his situation as natural, understanding the advantages and richness inside the unity of diversity.
Thist story shares common understanding between  different people, fighting racism and discrimination.
It was published as a picture book for children by Lapis Edizioni in 2002 and Tempesta Editore in 2017.
In 2003 it was awarded by the International Youth Library (IYL, Monaco) with the White Ravens, a recognition to the books all over the world considered of special value and it was selected in 2011 for the “Night of the tales”, event organized throughout Switzerland by the Bibliomedia Italian Switzerland.

Video in English with Italian subtitles:

Composition: what is a computer virus

Stories and News No. 1055

Francine is a common adolescent, to a hasty eye.
Even to one with time to sell, if you know what I mean.
It happens often that, in order to understand others, gaze and other overrated senses are not enough.
In any case, Francine should make a composition, even if she doesn’t want it, but her grades are going down day by day.
Title: What are computer viruses?
She’s going to write, but then she decides to start with the classic copy from the internet, to be sure of having said at least something right: A computer virus is a program that infects the PC, while creating copies of itself, usually without being detected by the user, just like biological viruses. Those who make and spread viruses are called hackers, who take advantage of the weakness of operating systems to damage computers, slowing down or conditioning their functioning.
Francine remains with the pen suspended on the

sheet and, as it often happens when she comes across something that makes her particularly puzzled, she begins to nibble on the cap.
It must be said that the girl is really tired.
Also, please, try to understand and tolerate the following words, because the teacher won’t do it, Francine is sure about that.
Too many times she tried to follow the canonical way, requested by the ministerial educational programs, but she didn’t manage to go beyond the line of sufficiency.
“At most Fran turns on the obvious,” said the Literature teacher to her parents.
She didn’t reveal it to them, not even to herself, but she suffered about that, inside, where the eye doesn’t reach and the heart doesn’t hurt, but the soul does.
For this reason, she takes a breath, re-reads the pre-defined definition several times as to better load the shot and sprouts his thoughts on the page.
Viruses are social networks, no one feels excluded, that is banned. They poison us of mediocrity by literally forcing us to make copies of ourselves, all the same, all differently idiotic, not to make us discover others, to the detriment of the user who has nothing, used by everyone except the now former owner of his identity.
They are the hackers of our own life and with our caricatures loaded on the shoulders we serve the great friend of anyone by offering a huge like as a gift to the virtual world that is getting bigger and smaller at the same time.
Viruses are the state and power newspapers, the party press and the digital spokesmen of the mafia, personal blogs disguised as collective ones and collective blogs disguised as independent, banner ads masked as important articles and commercials with the banners with good intentions, platforms of movements made from below managed by the top and lots of social pages screaming madness which even the managers know more about the origin of. All of them used to download directly into the belly of the loyal connected ones, or just for excess of clicks, remastered copies of old ravings like the world itself, where the enemy is always the others and the friend is friend, as long as the enemy is common and above all comfortable.
The viruses are the stars and the VIPs, the real famous and the fake ones, the built and maneuvered leaders, the admired and the followed creatures, who despite not really exist in the life of the beholder, invade our eyes and our minds with their effigy, made sacred by virtual adoration, tarped with a skilled and surgical hand. They are not restraining our imagination and ambition towards a real model.
They are deleting them completely.
This is how, as subscribers and fans, followers and supporters, friends and members of the same, gigantic group, when the light goes away we feel lonely much more than the day before.
Because at the end of the fair, we are the viruses.
Just as the encyclopedia explains at the beginning of the story, we contaminate each other, trying desperately to make copies of ourselves in the lives of others, making them not different from what we expect.
We are the hackers, because each one of us is writing this crazy script, and taking advantage of the fragility of the world that fortunately remained outside the building, we slow down every day more our path to progress that in the gone days the misunderstood science fiction writers have dreamed for us…


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Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Orangutan selfie story

Stories and News No. 1054

The naturalist photographer Ian Wood deliberately left his camera in a Borneo forest, until it was found by a very young, curious creature...

Can I?
Thank you.
First name? I don’t know, I've never needed it, and I can say the same about those who have loved me so far.
Because I can, because it can.
To be happy like that.
Last name? Same as above, with family and future progeny equally devoid of surnames and signature.
Because it’s possible, therefore natural.
Age? Three years old, if the beginning is birth.
A few hours ago, starting from the first light.
Now, if you talk about life that really matters.
Particular signs? Well, here comes the beauty.
Not signs, everything.
All is unique and differs from the most.
The whole lot surrounds and welcomes.
The world is mine and everyone's at the same time.

Nobody feels robbed.
Job? What do you mean? Wait a minute… are you speaking about that thing of doing something to bring food on the table? Simple, just food, and also without a table.
But maybe you allude to promotions and careers, promised shots and holidays, but not paid...
No, sorry, no.
This I cannot...
Disappointed? Wait, don’t go away, please, stay, we have time, a little more, but we have and we can’t say goodbye this way.
Residence? It depends.
If you refer to the home address, or, where you find rest and shelter, look for it.
And like me, you’ll find it.
However, open your eyes and throw them everywhere, without saving.
Trust your fingers, touch and grasp.
Fill the body with simple gifts and have the courage to risk everything.
If nature asks.
I can so much, therefore, as you can see.
Like you, after all, son of the most intrusive and screaming portion of the planet.
Just as I am able to press a button and draw in the eyes that look at my smiling or surprised face, I could do nothing for the others, however convinced to be better than them.
I could only be a hindrance to my society’s progress, but still considering myself innocent and also cool.
I could even boast myself about my reduced intellectual abilities and make it an essential requirement to lead the pack and act as a model.
I could also share with my peers a daily mountain of meaningless verses, approving and making them as viral as a particularly successful rainbow in the sky and a equally worthy of memory sunset.
But I won’t do it, because not everything that can be done is worth my time.
Because I can and a lot.
It’s a wonderful privilege, and I have no interest in wasting it.


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Friday, December 1, 2017

The last dream of the submarine

Stories and News No. 1053

Argentina has stopped the rescue operations for its submarine that disappeared 15 days after an explosion, apparently reported on the bottom of the Atlantic off the coast of Patagonia.
Still no news of the 44 crew members...


So, here we are.
It's time.
Ours.
In a story, too.
A farewell, maybe.
Of a dream, undoubtedly.
Of many, enclosed in one.
Come on, let's read them together and stay close to the missing ones to give each other a true goodnight, with hope, never certainty, to meet again the next morning.
Anyway, who can claim to really have it?
The first one is dancing in front of a mainland audience that can only admire those who do not fear the waves.
The second smiles, because he trusts the Principle of Archimedes applied to the imagination: a dream immersed in a liquid receives a push from the bottom upwards equal to the impossibility of realizing it.
The third is playing cards with the fourth and screams of joy, because he wins for the very first time since they are traveling.
The fourth simulates irritation, so he played losing, but that's okay. Because dreams do not need winners, just someone to share them with.
The fifth cooks for everyone, even if he’s not the real cook, because as a child he wanted to be anything but the captain.
The sixth is the cook, but he plays the guitar and it's a beautiful moment.

Really? The seventh says. That's why the meat was always bad… and he began to sing along.
The eighth is on the edge of the bed to shave off his beard, since he had promised his wife and doesn’t want to disappoint her.
If you love me, you’ll shave, she had written last time.
If I love you, look at me, the mirror in his hand replies for him.
After pallid maps and compasses, the ninth finally reads an adventure novel, the first since they set sail. It took a dream to devote time to others.
The tenth has eyes glued to the periscope and looks for mermaids, because if you don’t look for them in dreams, what are we talking about?
The eleventh is a mermaid, meaning he dressed like one. Tell me if there is a better time to reveal secrets.
The twelfth tells stories to everyone, even those who don’t want to hear them. He's never been good at, he's just remembering them all together.
The thirteenth doesn’t dream, but he sleeps and snores like a cold white shark.
Well, you stay ten hours to clean the engine room and then we'll talk.
The fourteenth makes a drawing in which he portrays the others who in turn dream, but he doesn’t want to color it, because he’s afraid of coming out of the margins and being scolded by the teacher (quoting his six-year-old son).
The fifteenth wash the dishes even if there is a dishwasher and continuously says: do it carefully without wasting water (quoting from his wife).
The sixteenth does gymnastics and sweats to death with as many as three suits, because he wants to lose weight. Do you know how many interviews we’ll do when they’ll save us? He manages to say despite his breath.
The seventeenth presses the uniform with careful hand for the same reason.
The eighteenth doesn’t find his own and he puts on the diving suit: who do you think will be the first to photograph when we’ll go out?
The nineteenth is obsessed with the calculator: then, he thinks, with the reward days that we’ll certainly get and the remaining holidays, I’ll cover Christmas, Epiphany and I’ll also have time from my sister's birthday.
The twentieth sews and mends one sock after another, because he has always done everything by himself and it will certainly not be a dream to soften it.
The twenty-first spreads his arms and hugs everyone he meets, because you’ll never forget the last friends you’ll have, according to a proverb of the sea.
The twenty-second kills himself of push-ups because the captain, before giving himself to the kitchen, always said that girls love the sculpted bibs.
He said the abdominals, according to the twenty-third who is training next to him.
The twenty-fourth writes a letter to himself, but he imagines being someone else who writes it to another, whose missive arrives by mistake to a third one who is then him, but don’t tell it around. Writing is like loving, he says, it's complicated but it fills your heart and life.
The twenty-fifth apologizes everybody of his stuttering. Oops, he's surprised a moment later, I don’t stammer anymore, what an idiot, it's a dream!
And from that moment, thanks to the well-known Theorem of the immediate removability of defects, demonstrable only in collective delusions and aesthetic or digital surgical, it is all removing and deleting.
The twenty-sixth throws the stick and, forgetting the prosthesis, he dances the limbo.
The twenty-seventh touches his nose and exclaims: Like Brad Pitt, I have it like Brad!
The twenty-eighth does the same and cries: Me too.
The twenty-ninth stops to be the saddest of the group and tells jokes without pause, while the thirtieth now shows a perfect dentition and can laugh without shame.
The thirty-first makes the juggler with the donuts and at the same time exclaims: who was the wimp?
The thirty-second is finally crying in front of everyone, period, because he once thought it was a flaw and only now has understood the error.
The thirty-third prepares the speech to read to the press.
The thirty-fourth too, in case the first one will be emotional.
The thirty-fifth asks only to stand in the front row at the exit, because his wife will give
soon birth to a child.
That is, she will always wait.
The thirty-sixth literarily flies between the bridge, the bow and return, and he doesn’t want to go down: boys, he explains, you should bet all on dreams, or it's better to stay on the ground.
You mean 'in the water', observes the thirty-seventh while taking a selfie with the thirty-eighth, the thirty-ninth and the fortieth.
You've moved, cried the latter, now we have to do it again.
Give me the camera, what if I did it for you? The forty-first is generous, since he has not yet understood what to do for himself, but in the meantime he want to be useful.
The forty second looks at everyone and tries to memorize everything with his mind, because he knows that something important is happening and a story or a picture will never be able to compete with the live eyes.
The forty-third is in the bathroom to pee, finally, he rejoices, finally free.
The forty-fourth, closing the circle, or almost, is already on the ladder, ready to emerge, without forgetting the future father.
Because in dreams being first doesn’t matter, just remember them.
Finally there's me.
Submarine, underwater, as you, up there, wish.
While here, I am and for eternity I’ll be the unfortunate whale of cold metal and human stories.
That one day someone will listen…


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Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
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