He moves as if his limbs could follow an imperceptible melody other ears could not perceive.
Please love me.



He is a poem. His skin made of black ink that runs on thin paper, trying to catch up with the feelings. 
Please let go of him. Please don't break him. 

How can someone be so ethereal, so delicate, so spotless?

A porcelain doll, whose grey-blue eyes have the tragedy and sorrow of who has stared, helpless, to all the pain of the world.
Who am I to contaminate with my dirty touch such a stunning miracle? 






I have felt the cold, pouring, rain harpooning my bones with one thousand needles of steel.
Staring there, in front of a past that still stands there and reminds you how little you are.
Happens when you live in Rome.



Black threatening clouds shout their anger in thunders e intimidating lights.
The rain gets harder, stronger, thicker.
What are we compared to the struggle of history?





Our memories will fade away, losing themselves in the night of time.
Our pain and sorrow, our joy and fears, our love so defenceless
Will be washed away, scraped from the walls of life.





What will remain of us?

Of the eternal perception of your hands on mine,
Of the invisible tears I've poured to heal my soul?




Are we lost, or there's no really a path we can follow?
No, don't go.
Please.
Don't go away.





The sun is pale and feeble
then how's that there so much light around you?
 Don't run this fast. 
I can't make it.
I'll be lost.
I can't make it.




Stop.
Here.
With me.




Give me just one more scent of your fragility.
Don't leave me, please.
Let me just hold your hand one more time






But you tremble as I touch you.










                                                       Why can't I be able to love you?




















"But there must be a way!"
We move but we don't, a mass of student surrounds us, but we feel alone.
C. smiles, but there's no joy in his smile. He has been struggling to find answers too. He has been struggling to find a place in the present, but the silence of the past is easier to accept.
He studied History and Political Studies at the Heidelberg University, my history lecturer.
He had the same hope something could have been done that I have.
He had the same dream of cities full of lights, of people walking happy of being where they are.

Then he found out there's nothing you can really do.
They fill your head of theories, of plans, of mathematical equations aimed to calculate the perfect way of doing things. Aimed to give you the illusion the world will be a wonderful place one day.
But there's nothing you can really do.
"You may have some good proposals, you may obtain a little place somewhere, you may think that now you can do something, that you will do something good, but they will never let you do it. You will be surrounded by people who ask you favours, and persecuted by people you can't deny the favours they ask for."

History is comforting.
But there's no space in it for someone like me, C., H, you, us.

We walk for miles in Rome's streets. The magical match of past and present of the city reflected on the dark shadows of a nostalgic history professor and a young student full of silly dreams walking together, talking in silence.




My life constantly slips out of my hands. It simply rolls down some massive hill and when I manage to catch it, it is always too late, and I don't even recognize myself anymore.



I feel old.
I feel I've been here too long, and, somehow, not at all.



Where am I going?
What am I doing?
Where have I been?
What have I done?





Empty and too full. Always. All the time.





Refuse
Resist
Restrict

It's that simple.
Is it?



Craving control. But I don't know what controls me anymore.
Am I the one who controls this? Or it's my disease that controls my mind?

I'm trying to do it healthy. But I'm sick of food.
I just want to be empty.











             
                                                    Weight this morning=54.8 Kg