Flying over the Alps at dusk …

As I am writing these words my eyes can’t but jump from the inert screen of the laptop to a gorgeous view out there. Over thirty thousand feet up in the sky, the last few minutes of the day ticking away, and a bright, painfully red sun reigning over the white, snow-capped peaks of the Alps.

The mountains are dressed in reds and oranges, as the snow reflects the last rays of a fleeing sun. And the sky dresses in an infinite range of tones between the dark navy blue above us, to a cherry red in the horizon.

I can’t say much more. The words to describe it escape my overwhelmed mind. Just … wow!

I wish you were here to see it.

Another day, another trip …

Sunday evening and once more on the move. Today I am flying to Slovenia, on a small aircraft where all I get for dinner is a cold chicken salad and a glass of wine (or a few glasses of wine actually). At least the stewardess, very cute but apparently engaged if I am to believe the ring in her left hand, has a nice and warm smile. She seems soooo young though! And my destination for the night is an old (hopefully clean) concrete building they call now the “Grand Hotel” in the Slovenian capital … sure! The GRAND Hotel! It just fills me with a feeling of ‘deja vu’ …

I can think of a few places where I’d rather spend the night tonight. Not the least of all at home … relaxing after a nice dinner with my wife. Or even somewhere in snowy Russia, in the beginning of the cold winter, with my gorgeous Russian friend Olik (or Olechka, which sounds superb!) who no doubt would appreciate some company while recovering from her cold. Or perhaps with my Polish friend Kasia if she was to ever forgive me. And the list goes on ... but here I am instead.

But as I unwrap my dessert (an Italian chocolate called Becci) this is what I read in the back of the shiny wrapping: “Amo non solo essere amato, ma anche sentirmelo dire”, which I think means “I like not only to be loved, but to be told that I am loved” …

I like not only to be loved, but to be told that I am loved.

Is this true? Is being loved not enough? Are the fact (or facts) of being loved not enough? Do we need to be told too? Yes … I fully agree. I want to be told. I need to be told. But most importantly, I should tell you more often … to my wife, to my family, to you my friend. How difficult is it? Why can’t we put aside our doubts (whatever they are) and say “I love you”? Is it that difficult? What are we afraid of?

Perhaps not to be corresponded by a reciprocal feeling?

So, next time we meet, next time we talk, next time our lives walk along the same path, please remember. I may be as bad as most in telling you how I feel, but have no doubt that you are making my life special for being there with me … so thank you!

More than words ...

When your mind runs out of words then let your eyes talk. Let your mind relax and wonder in the beauty of nature. Because it is only when you come really close to it, only then, that you realise how small we all are ...

I have always believed in the magic of words, but sometimes all you can do is stay silent and admire nature.

What if people could see inside you?

A rainy day in Bucharest, and clearly too early in the morning to use more than 1% or 2% (at most) of those lazy gray cells in my brain. I think I remember (unless it was a dream) a pleasant dinner a few hours ago, with a full-bodied Romanian red wine, and a visit to the bar at the hotel for a last drink with colleagues before hitting my bed. Business trips are often dull and indistinguishable from one another. But yesterday was somewhat memorable for 2 reasons.

The first one was a charming conversation over dinner with a friend, a male friend for a change, fortunately not about sports or women (believe it or not).

And the second one was the gorgeous waitress at the bar of the Intercontinental Hotel bar in Bucharest. A blond beauty of shy eyes, too polite to tell me off following my poor attempts to talk her up.

Nothing memorable so far - you will think – just Sasha’s usual failure to be witty and engaging. Ok, ok … you are probably right. But in her gentle, although not for that less disappointing, rejection there was something else. Hiding in there, behind a thick curtain of good manners, there was a bored look of someone used to be stared at by wishful, if hopeless, semi-drunk clients. So for the first time in a while, I tried to walk out of my self-centric universe and jump into her shoes. I wanted to look at myself from her point-of-view, thereby learning something about myself in the process …

And I am afraid what I saw kept me awake until well after midnight. There I was, in a smart but nonetheless boring suit and tie. Looking tired and cut to the same pattern as millions of men around the world. Not specially tall or short, without any remarkable features, and looking more like 40 years old than 31 (at least according to the young eyes of my friend Julia). In short, just a young-ish man instinctively (as dictated by nature) attracted to the beauty of the opposite sex, and making stupid comments after a drink or two too many.

And to be perfectly honest, all that is true … but is that really me? What about my feelings, my hopes, my fears? When I think of myself I can see a complex human being struggling to define himself, searching for answers to an ever increasing number of questions. A lonely soul trying to understand the world around, and timidly attempting to reach into people’s heart and soul.

But that is obviously not what you can see from the outside. I wonder what would happen if people could see inside me. What if people were able to look right through and into my soul? Would people like me more or less? Or is perhaps my soul as mediocre and unremarkable as my looks may be?

I challenge you to look inside yourself and seek an answer to that question … but just be careful. You may not like what you see!

Shattered dreams ….

Sometimes life is unfair to us. She talks to us, she teases us, she whispers into our ears adding to our dreams. Dreams that we blindly embrace. Perhaps neither the first day, nor the second, but we all eventually fall prey of those dreams. Dreams like those of a princess in the tallest tower of a castle far, far away. A castle guarded by a fierce, fire-spitting dragon. Dreams of a gentle, handsome knight who risks his life and defeats the dragon to rescue her.

Just reward me with your presence in my dreams for a moment … on a sunny morning, just the beginning of a beautiful day of blue skies, green forests, and snow capped mountains. Of delicate flowers and tiny little birds singing of the arrival of a hero coming to rescue her …

But life, after lonely millennia growing older and wiser, has learnt how to avoid our rage. She walks in the shadows, follows the moon on her nocturnal wanderings, and flies around the world in search of the right person to place in front of us. Someone who looks the same, feels the same, talks the same as anybody else. But someone who is slightly different at the same time.

Please be kind to me and save me from having to answer the question in your mind, because I don’t know why that person is different. All I know is that, one day, this person comes into our lives, extends his or her hand, and touches our heart. And the warmth of that magical touch is unlike anything else. It pushes away our worries, it brings a smile on our face, it wakes in us that wonderful feeling called hope. Hope … because among all those millions and millions of people on this planet we all share, there is suddenly one person with that magical touch.

***

However, dreams are made of glass. And being delicate and fragile, sometimes dreams fall and break in tens of glittering pieces that cover our thoughts in painful memories. So much so that we forget the way we felt when those fingers caressed our heart.

I am not a heartless man. I have dreams and hopes as you do. I feel joy and pain, happiness and sadness. And if I ever touched your heart, if you ever felt the warmth of my presence in your life, please believe me when I say that you touched my life too. My failure to deserve a place in your dreams, weighs on my shoulders every time I think of you. And my soul cries knowing that I failed to you, that I dropped your dream, that those tens of painful memories are the result of my mistakes.

***

Please, forgive me.

I accept my fault, but please forgive me. I know a broken glass cannot be remade. I know there is nothing in this world that could put together again the pieces of those shattered dreams. But please do not forget that, among those painful memories, there are some special moments too. I may never get the second chance that I don’t deserve, but please do not let those few joyful thoughts fall into oblivion. Those times when a child-like smile lit your face and your eyes lingered over my words in disbelief. When your mind imagined how it would feel to be with me. Because if there is something we can savage from the wreck I have caused, I will kneel down at your side and patiently help collect those shiny crystals worth preserving. And perhaps one day something beautiful may be born from them.

A wreck of a human body sheltering an exhausted and terrified soul.

Yesterday was a great day, but I feel dreadful this morning.

And worst of all ... I am not sure what is the cause of this weight that pushes me down against the mattress. If I had the benefit of your presence with me today you would witness no doubt a change in me. Because the effects of this invisible presence, of this so far undefinable force that chases me without a rest, as a hound to its pray, are immediately obvious. Hazy eyes digging deeper than normal in their cavities and fleeing the morning light, a dark shade around them in contrast to the fair skin in my apparently-bloodless face today, shaky hands that fail to grasp confidently a steamy cup of coffee on the bedside table ...

But who is to blame for it? Is the culprit of my pitiful state too much alcohol on a Friday night? Or perhaps a long and dark night of guilty pleasures? Or could it be the fear to face another empty piece of paper, another white screen in my laptop, waiting for the muses to arrive?

- 'Guilty!' - I stand up and tell the jury - 'Nobody but me is the cause of how I feel, because nobody else can claim control on my will, and it is only through that freedom that we decide on our actions'. But finding the wrongdoer does not dissipate the feeling, and clearly it does not cure the hangover.

Memories start rushing in, as coffee replaces alcohol in my veins. Memories of dinner at a Japanese restaurant and one Kirin beer. Or definitely more than one. Probably more than two, but I can't remember precisely. And I remember a beautiful Russian woman, Olik. Her green eyes and inviting smile seem to break through the confused images of my still unfocused mind, like a floating presence, like a 3-mast man-of-war battered by the storm that you just make out in the distance, sailing away.

And I think I remember one more of the many mistakes of the night. A sensitive Polish woman being paid back with rudeness for her kindness.

Why? Having the power of choice, the treasure of freewill .... why are we lured so easily by the promises of a fun alcoholic night? When will we learn from our mistakes and drink in moderation?

I am today a wreck of a human body, sheltering an exhausted and terrified soul. And I can't write anymore.

A statement of intent

To Taielle, a friend who inspired me to write again ...

It is early in the morning. London is not foggy anymore, which makes the city less of an icon for those who were brought up reading the incredible Sherlock and his loyal Doctor Watson. However it is a beautiful morning. The sun shines timidly, who knows for how long, and the street is busier every minute with romantic husbands and boyfriends rushing to buy freshly baked bread and croissants for their unaware, sleeping beauties. Few things like breakfast in bed with someone special at your side ...

Two things come to my mind as I look through the window into the streets of London. The first, that it is time to clean the windows. The second .... well, the second is the same flood of thoughts any amateur writer faces in front of a blank computer screen: what to write when the list of possibilities is so enormous? From evermore common topics like travelling, to less than exciting ones like my job. From stories about my fortunes or misfortunes, to tales about you or about someone else. Awesome power that of skilled writers who can create a new world from the emptyness of a white sheet of paper!

But then, under the cover of my confused thoughts, the answer smuggled into my mind. We all live in society, with few exceptions like the stranded Crusoe, I daresay. We all have rules to follow, which allow us to live together. Laws and regulations, social behaviour rules, religious rules, etc. But these same rules are a big weight on our shoulders too. These rules are like a mask on our faces, preventing us from being ourselves.

Why can I not remove that mask for a few pages and write about you and I putting aside those rules? Who is the person underneath the mask? Will it be a playful and happy person? Or a dark individual full of fear and remorse? That is then the task ahead. A trip of discovery, following the steps of Ulysses in search of answer that may or not be there. But if not an answer, I hope the trip will at least teach me something about that person underneath the mask. Good or bad.