when twitter showed the death of Gaddafi
They say, madam, that doubts are healthy bearers of novelty. They say they creep into a man's brain and ask first simple questions and then away more complex, digging tunnels and deep grooves where before there was order and tranquility. They say that doubts are a sign of great wisdom, since nothing is certain in life.
I sit here, close to her, and I think of my doubts, and I strongly think about what are those that surround me but unfortunately I do not have. I've been looking for them, you know, this afternoon, I put myself there that I wanted to make a list, maybe small. It is evident that I am not wise, but this is not the point.
I saw today, on Al Jazeera, the video of Gaddafi died, poured into the sand face down.It is clear, I looked for comfort to my malaise and to the doubts that as peanuts had been rolled up since yesterday afternoon on my black table while on the radio Adele sang my song. Like little ideas that then swollen, they rolled them there while I looked out of the window and I was also trying to understand the ban and to read the guiding thread that linked different events and that made these doubts rise and swallow. Just that, as usual, I saw the big picture, and I felt the earth tremble under my feet and these peanuts took the place of my cards, my pens, catalogues, calendar, scratched door, library, as mercury drops joined in two, three great ideas to then merge into one and roll back and forth on my desk. So, when they left me alone with this huge gelatinous mass lying in precarious balance on my desk, I decided to ignore it and I lit twitter. And to distract me, I read the news of Gadhafi, or rather, as they call him in the world. And to distract me even more I went to see the video, yes, of the dead rais that is rolled, and turns to face up, the eyes semi open, red blood everywhere, the open mouth. And then I went to Al Jazeera and I saw a video, which was there, recently, seen by 364 people, and I clicked and I was 365th, and I saw Gadhafi alive, my lady, alive while I lincite him, 31 seconds of a man gutting blood, banged guns against the hood of a jeep, forced to show the face, the left part tumephat and red of blood, Then I read, always on twitter, it was in a hole, my lady, in a hole like mice. And then I saw the picture of where they said it was. A huge pipe for pipelines under the ground. In front of the desert. I wondered if it could really be the place where they found it (which as it does to hide in a tube, there are no ravines, no escape routes, I don't know my lady, I don't know). 
I took a look at the huge ball on my desk: it had taken dark blue shades, like the water of puddles in the city, between blue and black. I decided to shut it down; I turned off the computer, the radio, the printer, everything.
You know, my lady, it's not like I want to start all over again, but I don't think I'm the one who chooses.
Before closing the computer I took another look at twitter: – do not shoot, do not shoot! -
Sì, guardi, sto ferma un po’ qui, in silenzio, e penso. Mi vengono in mente tante cose, ma quel grido mi ha colpito, sa. Che lui ha sempre disprezzato la vita degli altri: ne ha uccisi, e feriti, e stuprate e prevaricati e schiacciati a migliaia di persone. Conosceva lui quel mondo di soprusi, lo aveva creato lui. Sapeva che era finita, non poteva pensare che lo avrebbero salvato. Eppure si è aggrappato alla vita come ha potuto, urlando che non voleva morire.
Sì, taccio.
Sa cosa ho pensato poi? Ho guardato quella cosa schifosa che galleggiava sulla mia scrivania, stava riempiendo la stanza in netto contrasto con le pareti bianche. Ho pensato che qualunque cosa succeda io me ne vado in vacanza per un po’. Che so, tre giorni. Senza dire niente a nessuno.
Al mare. A Parigi. Oppure a Tokio. Oppure in Irlanda.
Ora come ora mi sa che domani brucio e lascio la mia scrivania vuota.
Leave a comment