Just yet, I haven't discovered the true signification of life. I know some day I would find a way to indulge my mistakes, without the torment of making myself guilty for every drop of bitterness I place in somebody elses's heart...or even in mine.
Someone once told me, in a very soft and experienced tone "Child, you have to live. Not to go through life, filled with regrets, and anger. Just live. This is a one chance, you'll never get a second one..." I still don't think I fully understand. It might sound much like poetry, like a filosophy... She was a french writer though... Anyway, I'm starting to get a hold on myself, with strength I haven't been much fond of... At times I think I liked being weak, and expect pity, and mercy, and to be in the center of the universe for lonely people, like the most miserable teenager, that had it all, and lost it all. I know I did. Had it right in palm of my hand, lost it like a spek of dust blown by the wind, and I regret the fact that I actually liked living filled with distress, dourness, biterness, grief, wormwood, with bitter misery... It was hard, but I was being, once again, the DramaQueen every single of the ones who know, the "queen" of the DramaClub, the main character of my own miserable story, played on the stage of the city...
I recall a scene of three years ago, in my first year of high-school, I was ashamed to walk beside my male colegues, they were smoking and laughing in the bus stop, and that is how I traveled home across the city, riding in the same bus with my colegues, my neighbour-colegues, ignoring them and their stupid jokes. Now I'm not afraid to join them. Theese changes have trasformed me and at times I cannot immagine myself as I was a while ago. I suppose I looked really stupid :)) ...
I was paging through my blog archive and surprisingly, I have more unfinished documents than the ones I have actually posted... I found one that brought me shivers....
"Why sometimes you just have the feeling that you're doing the right thing, but that right thing you're doing will bring you pain and tears once again? Too much drama will serve nothing. Too many tears will bring a common sense of misery, in which the comfort I need, will be found.
So many times I've tried to ignore myself and do the right thing, and... What am I actually saying ??? I have absolutely no point in my speaking, in breathing, no point in life. I've accepted every single shot to mess it up, and to ruin what I've been building so far. How could I expect of something better? Maybe my perspective over the world is changed, and what once used to be great, and mighty, and good and gentle, now it seems, to a twisted eye, exactly the contrary."
My weird self is complicated, I know, just as every human being has their own undercore, undercase studying to be made to be discovered. They just don't show it. I never used to show it, not even to myself, not even in my most personal sheets of my diary, that I laugh as I read ... Mom told me I'm growing up. That I am changing, in a good way. Like WOW!!! She actually said something nice to me, she even encouraged me. She has stopped hitting me for a while, she stopped screaming at me, at everybody, at herself. She changed too. And I kinda' happen to like her ^.^
It's 00:00. Interesting hour. Sometimes that feeling you get, that you are home. That you're really at home... Comes at night. The silence I mourn for, the pleasure of the house in the dark, the curves, and the shadow of the 1945 massive wood furniture, with a delicate smell of ancient, and still looking more than fresh, the marble at the corners, and the old and dusty mirrors that the silver foil started to come off the blurry sketchy glass, with their tables and closets with tall and thin legs and stems, with hand made details, and tresses, and the conte's emblemma, that complicated R&S, added in a flower of fire, with curls in grey and green and red... It's a wonderfull fantasy, as I read my skinny little book, at a candle light in the sober atmosphere in the living room, as I like to call it. It's cold salon, with a huge freshly extingueshed fire place, but I feel most comfortable and passionate for lying still on a cold leather couch, cross legged and staring over the bushes of the wintered garden. The roses are asleep. Hidden under a blanket of thermal isolater, to protect their royal colour, the bloody red of the petals of a fresh spring blooming, followed by the Roger Straume orchids...My uncle's favourites. I can see the craddle, the swing of a lost childhood. I thought I would regret my childhood in my country. But life in the Straume County is quite boring without a laptop and a wireless connection for the internet. I remember the summers of my first years here. The castle seemed to be a labyrinth for my immagination, so many times as I got lost in the corridors and chambers with cold black locks and keys that made it look a tresshold.
Pressing play to Samuel Barber - Adagio for strings, episode 11, the most delightful episode of the violin concerts I have ever attended. You actually feel the tremble of the violin strings, and it makes my arm hair raise even now, after multiple replays... The Accentus Chamber Choir makes me shiver. It always reminds me of the final scenes of the movie "The Omen". The one movie that kept me awake in front of the fireplace in a cold spring night, all wrapped up in a blanket, cold and blank empty eyes, looking into nothing... The Vicont of Straume, Richie, as I like to torture him, says it's the most popular theme song of Samuel Barber's life-time works, but no one in my surroundings, where I have lived my childhood, in the obscure suburbs, little educated city people have never heard of Samuel. Sadly. I have definitely received an IV of culture and education, and the hunger for books, and violin concerts, my Grampa "Willy", cousin Charles and I adore violin concerts. My city does not lodge such concerts. They seem to be at mostly of such poor quality, and the Opera stages are ebbullienced with non proffesionals, that made themselves comfortable on that stage and the scene of the events make them cosy enough, to do not want to retire, even thought their voices, of a bad preparation anyway, are starting to become a flaw. The late hour makes me gape, yawn with all my teeth. London is still rainy and it's boring. Hoping to see aunt Lilly in the afternoon, no more tea and biscuits tomorow night. It's time we go shopping for a night in the city. The good old style, but not litterally old and stylish, she's only 20, young and smart enough to plan an escape with the girls, for a ... Girl's night out [beware!]. And as my candle fades to a pale flame and lets me in the dark with nothing but the laptop light, I crawl my legs up the stairs (thank God for the inventing of the typical motion sensors for lighting the stair case, so I won't fall, again :P ). My room has never been so tidy for a whole week in years. Andy, my aunt Clarisse's favourite house maid is finally proud. The Egyptian cotton sheets on my bed are cold, and the smell of summer breeze they spread makes me only remember the summers at home. A place I start to run short of patience to see again. A place I need, I miss, and love.
