What was
The house I live in was made exactly like the one I lived as child. My intention, of course, was to restore in the old age the youth. But my friend: I could not get to restore what was and also not what I was. The face is the same, but the expression is different. If I was missing others, okay: a man gets along more or less fine despite the people he lost. But I miss myself, and this hole is everything.
What is here is - for lack of a better definition - like the paint people put on the hair to keep the external aspect. As they say in the autopsy: there is no paint for the guts.
A document that gave me twenty years less would fool the public, as do all the things that are fraud. But it doesn't fool the self.
The friends I have are from recent times. All the old ones are now studying the geology of the graveyards.
As for the girlfriends, some are from fifteen years, some a little less, and almost all of they belive in the youth. Two of them would make others believe, but the language they use requires you to constantly look up the dictionary, and this frequence is often boring.
Her hair
I kept on touching her hair, carefully, dividing them in two equal parts so to make to ponytails.
I didn't work fast or efficiently, like do the professional hair dressers, but slow, tasting with the hands those threads that were part of her. The work was filled with mistakes, many times for inexperience, other times to undo what was done to make it again. The fingers could stretch her neck and the shoulder between the dress, and the feeling was divine. But the hair was finishing, as much as I wish they were endless.
I didn't ask the heavens that her hair was to long like the dawn, because I yet knew not that Goddess the old poets showed me. But I did want to brush them throughout the centuries and forever. To make two ponytails that would wrap around the infinite a million times over.
If you think this is too much, unfortunate reader, it's because you never got the change to brush the hair of a yong girlfriend.
Virgin of Women
I looked back to her: she had the eyes to the ground, but she raised them, slowing, and we kept looking to each other. Confessions of childhood, you were worth two or three pages, but I want to save you. In fact we spoke nothing, the inscription on the wall spoke everything. We didn't move, were the hands that moved towards each other, holding, uniting, becoming one.
I don't have the exact timing of that moment. I should have written it down. I feel the lack of a note written in that very moment, which I would put here with the mistakes it had. But it would have none: because was little the difference between the man now and the boy then.
I knew the rules of writing without suspecting those of love. I had orgies of latin, being a virgin of women.
