Slow Life: Friend

You hear it, friend, the metallic sound of the guitar that traces the notes of our life?

Do you remember, my friend, what was around the sensual rhythm of this song when we were together?

Each stroke on the rope is like reopening a drawer full of never-dormant emotions, which colored our days full of vitality with intense tones.

Listen, my friend, this drum beat that rhythmically marked the beating of our heart, when we had the stubborn hope of elevating ourselves to other dimensions, outside the common experiences, to enjoy a happiness that was ours alone?

Do you remember this flute that accompanied us on the walls of the mountains, the hiss of the wind that for us was one with our breath, as if it crossed our body and we were part of the wonderful environment, which we wanted to enjoy to the fullest?

Each passage of the piano rekindled in me the secret conviction that we were happy up there, where everything seemed clearer, where you could not cheat, where our personal values were expressed like a spring bloom, where we didn't need much and where what little we had was nothing more than a modest means to reach our heart.

My friend, we were on the wall to measure ourselves with our life, our expectations, our satisfactions, strong in ourselves, strong in the belief that the world was ending there among those vertical rocks, those smooth cracks, those overhangs that would have made most people disgusted and that gave us the feeling of belonging to them, at every step, at every grip, at every hammer blow, at every rattle of carabiner, with every rustle of the rope.

We were no longer ourselves, we were the moving part of that wonderful stone cry, which was guarding every breath of life that approached heaven.

My friend, music runs like sweet medicine for our mind, I remember you absorbed and enraptured by the hardness of the way you climbed, emanating a sort of endorphin that he placed at the center of a world of our own, made of nothing but full of a happiness full of emotions, adrenaline, simplicity and mental innocence.

The violin cradles my head bringing me back to the summit, in an evening of unreal silence, where only a few faint breath of wind caressed our hair and our eyes could to deeply enjoy the end of our struggle, extreme, with our mind, consumed on the wall.

The sunset paralyzed us for the warm spectrum of colors that gently enveloped the mountain in front of us, impressing itself in our eyes as if we were mirrors of the immense beauty of which we had the privilege of enjoying.

The pianola is now moving away and with it the music of our life diminishes, in my head in a fraction of a second I realize an instant of balance, the images of then and those of today that overlap quickly without being able to find a desired location, turn, move, close then far, front and back, never managing to stop and reposition themselves clearly.

The music is over, my friend, I blink and we're gone.

Automatic translation. We apologize for any inaccuracies. Original article in Italian.