This morning I woke up because of my own sobs, and despite all the ultra-joy I had the days before. Most of the times this happens to me with laughter, sometimes I wake up with my own laughter, but once in a while I dream of someone dying, perhaps, I cry and I wake up of that, and then I calm dawn, because I realize it was a nightmare and the person is alive, and I realize better how much I want this person in my life. This morning, instead, it has been a bit different: in the dream I was crying because of a death already happened, and waking up I had to acknowledge on a deeper level of awareness how this death is sad to me. When she passed away suddenly, in that motorcycle crash, I had somehow enough "sane distance" to elaborate the loss. I love death as I love life, and I'm maturing a golden connection with the whole cycle. But, as I grow, I wonder about how you could have grown too, how many things I would have liked to share with you, to do with you, to ask you about. What would have you think of this? Would have you liked to join the same crazy ideas I'm exploring in the new pages of my life? Would have you visited me somewhere, in The Netherlands or in Hungary? We would be talking so much again about politics, philosophy, art and love, and I'd tell you how much I feel back in the same hopeful eyes we caught each other when I was thirteen and you were fourteen. You'd love so much to hear that I'm back fighting for a better world, for good, after all those years I had lost much of optimism. I'd sending you all the new Italian progressive rock I'm finding and I'd want to know everything about how you imagine the revolution of our school system. I'd ask you to work together, again. And if we'd disagree, we would have the most tasteful and stimulating discussion!
So, this is missing, I guess, bloody hell. I miss you, my friend, and I didn't know the way I would have missed you, when all this happened, almost four years ago.
But I love the funny way I bumped into you in this dream, this morning.
(Was that an intentional and planned visit, my friend? Shall I thank you?)
I was crossing a bizarre bazaar somewhere, together with some friend, and I could not stop turning my head back to that majestic lady selling oriental piercings, bracelets, pots and carpets, with that nose some like mine, and that elegance proper of the best beasts, with the pride of a crane and the chill of a lazy, cold and indulgent giraffe. I just knew she was not busy only with some selling, I knew for sure that this lady had an adventurous past and was probably feeling her life as a mission – as you did. A burning, mystic and mysterious mission. I could not stop turning my head to this magnetic lady, and I was about to find the words to apologize with my friend and explaining that I had to go and to kiss this lady's hand. And then, then I really saw the hand! Those hands, with those charming gloves and that unique way to address the body on their way, that was you! It was you, reincarnated in this long, long body, confident in your new life as a wise old woman can be, and you were carrying around this beautiful turban just as a supernatural crown. And that's when I started to cry, because I understood that I miss you, and I remembered your death. And then your favourite literature teacher from our Art High School came to me, to console my shoulder. She said, 'She was special, wasn't she?'
Then I told my whole dream to my Great X (someone you'd adore the art from), and I told her that weird, weird thing, that you always asked me to write your biography, if you were dying before me, you did it throughout our teenage till the last time we met, in our early 20s, just before I left Italy, in 2012. And I told Great X that I had never expected your biography to be so short, though, and I had wished to have many more things to tell, as your life would have collected. So Great X said this: that perhaps I should imagine the life you would have had.
