All right (maybe)(maybe)(maybe)
Saint Ignatius of Antioch would be born today. Patron of writers and authors. Called to stop smoking (obsolete concept this, which is not that you Stop to smoke, but otherwise, he recovers to breathe, to feel inside and out, to taste life, not to be afraid of pain, because the smoker does nothing but surround himself with a curtain of protection, a cloud not to feel inside).
Saint Ignatius of Antioch, my Lady, is an important saint. They captured him, I don't know where and translated him into chains to Rome, that the spectacle of his killing was to be a public good offered in the eyes of the powerful and worthy Romans. That there are always deficient people, in the life of each of us, who enjoy the misfortunes of others and it seems that Emperor Trajan enjoyed the famous prey, that Ignatius in fact was bishop of Antioch precisely. Ah, the power (of Trajan, the appointments, the hierarchy...)!He wrote, St. Ignatius, he wrote a lot to be one who was in chains, continuously humiliated and spoiled by the soldiers who brought him to Rome. He always wrote, as he was breathing so he wrote.
Alda Merino also wrote: in prison or better (weight) in the psychiatric hospital, she wrote, inside and outside, the words on paper, engraved with the pen.
St. Ignatius was beaten by the beasts, but he was a saint and was made of fire (in nomine omen My Lady.
It protects, it is said, writers and authors, with this marvelous subtle distinction between each other. So that if you don't feel a writer you can tell you author, and vice versa.
It’s October 17th, and despite it seems that everything around me is immutably firm, and what moves really collapses, I feel like saying that everything is okay.
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