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lavoro pubblicato sabato 12 marzo 2011
ultima lettura domenica 18 ottobre 2020

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The strange meeting

di Lolu. Letto 1025 volte. Dallo scaffale Straniera

The strange meeting lorenzo LuporiniChap...

The strange meeting lorenzo Luporini

Chapter 1

My pillow tonight attempted suicide. Yes, this morning I found him alone, dumped in the dark next to my bed. He has probably fallen sick of my dreams that must all seem unappealing after a while. Well, I guess I would understand him. Sharing a bed with a resting corpse that is walking in the fields of dreamland is probably not the most entertaining plan for a Saturday night....

Wait: if yesterday was Saturday today is Saturday... Then why is my alarm clock beeping at 6 o'clock in the morning???

The house is silent at this hour. She doesn't comment on my clumsy attempt to dress up. I lurch to the bathroom and duck the mirrors reflection recalling the hour that my dear alarm clock had shown yesterday night.

Starting a day without a shower is never a good thing, especially when you confidently sprang under the water excepting a warm and reassuring embrace that only showers are allowed to give you and instead find the penetrating chill of unheated water.

No shower today, I will try again in the evening.

I walk out of the bathroom, run down the stars glancing at the fading pictures of my family. I'm not hungry so I decide that breakfast can wait. There are much more important priorities now then eating. I take my ipod , a pen and a some lined paper.

"Undisclosed Desires" - Muse softly playing while I walk on the pavement kicking the cans and glass bottles that had contributed to the parties of the Saturday night which had been as explosive as always. It is truly unbelievable how a human habitat can vary in a few hours time. If you had happened to stroll along this pavement yesterday night (or this morning I should probably say) you would have found a sort of pleasurable hell. Drinks, Drugs and Girls mixing in a blur.

I know that some of my mates enjoy this type of entertaining. Fifteen year olds are easily attracted by the appearances. Sadly I do not fall into this category, I never stop to appearances also when I probably should. I would love to spend nights happily drinking and "having a good time" but this is simply not what I seek for in my life.

I walk along the pavement and the trash can that today smelled of a very particular "fragrance". I believe alcohol mixed to vomit, the effects of a "great time".

My school is a very honest building. It appears just as tedious as it is and I have always admired how the graduated engineers manage to make all schools as uninteresting as possible. My school is a brick colored building made out bricks as you might have guessed! It is a two block building with glass windows, some of them shattered by the games of generations of teenagers. Many of the stories behind those bombarded windows are too ancient and remote to be known by a year 10 class in 2021.

The school today shan't enjoy my company. She is condemned to emptiness for forty eight hours per week, a sort of seclusion that she has been imposed by the students limit bearing of thirty hours of school. Today that I have the chance to move on. I don't think twice, I pass on ignoring her dark call.

" I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart......." I had nearly forgotten my Ipod searching attention, moaning into my ear. I advance on the concrete floor staring blankly at the nearby buildings. I have nearly reached my destination when I catch glimpse of myself in a puddle. I believe that by now you are longing to acquire some information on my character. Well, you should just know that I am 15 year-old boy called Antonio and I live in Taranto a small city in the neglected south of Italy. So now you know my name, age, city and that I am walking.

You still want to know more? Then you can consider reading on.

Chapter 2

If you are still reading my story you should seriously consider searching an interesting hobby! Nevertheless you have now chosen to read of the adventures of walking-boy Antonio and so you deserve to know where someone like me goes on a Sunday morning.

I am going to the beach.

It is still march and Taranto is still in winter. Today is a very dull. Grey clouds forming a cover over the usual brightness of Italy's sky.

I am now close to the beach and my thirst thought is that my ipod has now lost its utility. Not even the aggressive notes of the linkin park (that have followed muse ) can be compared to the restless roar of the waves.

I take my shoes off to encounter the sand. Immerging my bear foot into the cool sand is a very unpleasant feeling but it is also one of the most relaxing sensations that a city like Taranto can offer. It takes me a while to get used to the temperature but now I am perfectly ready to arrive at my final destination.

I take my shoes in hand just to notice that there's a new hole right next to the laces. Memorandum: ask parents new pair of shoes (this point has been on my memorandum list for a while now).

It is not the first time I come here. I come here every now and then when I want to be alone. Surely you are wondering where is "Here". Here is the a wooden structure consisting in four poles that hold upon them a small watchtower that life guards use in summer to control the whaling sea.

My aim is to climb inside the watchtower, crouch in a corner and listen to the silence; Then I shall take out my pen and paper and I will write. I do not know what I will be writing about and neither do I intend think about it. I will decide only and exclusively once that I've reached the watchtower.

Suddenly I stopped.

Footprints? At six o'clock of a Sunday morning... How could have someone left footprints in my "territory" at this time? Standing there I considered what could have happened. " probably it's some footprints left over from yesterdays parties"

" maybe it's still a trace from some tourist that had visited yesterday" this silent conversation hadn't illuminated me on the possible reasons for which my pure and untouched sand had been violently invaded by someone that was not me.

I had now strolled up to the structure and was observing the smooth wood that had faced many winds and storms and was still there. The rusty nails that kept together the tower had been corroded by the water. The entire structure seemed to howl in the wind that had grown and become an intense "libeciatta" a strong winter coming from the south feeling the air with screeches carried from the distance.

A reason more to enter my hiding place and defend myself there, between those rigid walls that seem to await me in their secure strength.

A ladder is now the only obstacle between me and my deserved hiding. I climb on the steps feeling them screech under my weight. Something else is out of place. There are some little sand grains resting tiredly on the last step... I feel them with my fingers. They shouldn't be here. They are out of place. The wind should have blown them off during the night, they should have been returned to the ground and should be waiting for some wind.

She was there.

I am now inside the tower. She is sitting in the far corner where I had been longing to sit for the last minutes .Her hand very agile, swirling gracefully over a candid sheet of paper. I stood up next to her observing in respectful silence for her opera.

Incredibly she still hasn't noticed me. So I decide just to sit in the opposite corner. After all why not? I came here to write and I she is not going to stop me .

I sat down and stared at my own white paper, unable to isolate myself from her presence. I felt aware of her breathing and I couldn't find the sublime mood that is necessary to write. I stared at her, this time very intently. I framed her dark curls in my mind and glanced at those absent green eyes.

Most boys would say she is hot. I just thought that she was different.

Shattered I turned my mind back to work. The words had now started to flow in me like a water fall, crashing and splashing on the paper. We both wrote in silence absorbed in our thoughts , that rushed in parallel dimensions never encountering each other's routes.

She sighed.

I would have never noticed if she hadn't clicked her pen signaling that she had finished her master piece. She had noticed me now. Her pupils once absent were now penetrating and serious. We gazed at each other for a few moment and I understood the real meaning of "melting point". She was my age more or less but she emanated maturity and seemed older because of this.

She stood up looked at me forcing me to "examine" what I had written. I saw letters but I did not read, I was too busy thinking of her trying to guess how she saw and what she thought.

Was I a vile intruder or a brave companion to her?

I still didn't know what she was to me but she was definitely wasn't the hostile intruder that I had imagined. I actually felt pain now observing her packing her things up. Obviously I took glance of an Ipod.

I would swear I heard Muse softly accompanying her to the exit of the watchtower. I was just in time to see her curls disappearing, descending the ladder landing into the same tracks that had I drawn in the sand.

I was alone now but I didn't feel like writing anymore. The only desire I felt was to chase "her". I had just realized that I didn't know her name and that she would remain " her" If I didn't chase her.

So I did.

I ran out of the watchtower searching the beach for the girl that had so deeply changed my plans. I search right, left, up , down and up. ( now I see how stupid I must have looked searching frantically with my nose up in the air) She was nowhere.

I went back in saddened for my loss. I packed my stuff and turning towards the exit I caught glance of a piece of paper. Her paper.

It was her entire script, master piece, text that had been left there. Maybe for me? I picked it up and placed it in my pocket.

I then walked out, climbed the ladder and sat in the sand. I pulled out the sheet of paper "her" had left me and buried it into the sand under the watchtower being careful not to be seen. I watched the sea. The sign was now shining, reflecting on the waves.

I turned around.

The beach was now beginning to be populate by the first brave strollers that enjoyed the first rays of sun.

Her tracks in the sand were not there anymore. Everywhere around me the sand was pure and untouched exactly how I had imagined it would be.

Everything was perfect.

This girl that had crossed my life now didn't exist anymore to me.

I decided that it was too early to abandon the watchtower.

I climbed back in and turned the page over, the start of a new story or the continuance of an old one in my case.

Unfortunately I am happy like this. I am happy being the writer of the tower.


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