I write to tell stories

It would be enough for me to have a hundredth of Alberto Forchielli’s intelligence to be able to feel myself a better and more useful person in the world, but unfortunately I am only a common mortal, an insignificant and mediocre number in the nothingness of the human Universe.
At the age of 21 I moved to Milan believing that I was living many life projects, then the euro came, it was the end of dreams.
After almost 20 years of work I realized that in Italy there are no companies that produce, but there are companies that give salaries as dowry: to receive a dowry in a company, it is enough to dress in fashion, be stupid and to be bitch when the boss walk between one desk and another, wearing a miniskirt and high heels.
The next step is to get pregnant by a liar who abandons you: a woman’s life ends in a blind alley, bitterness and sadness, no positive outlook.
At 39, I am happy that I didn’t have children, that I didn’t bring other people into the world who, as if they were just deluding themselves into building a life, because Italy is a crooked country, made up of a crooked people who steal because they feel more smart to steal.
I served as a condominium counselor for 4 years, carrying out my duties and fulfilling my responsibilities, to look at selfish people who think only of themselves, who don’t respect the rules and live like animals.
In Italy any sector of work is a closed environment, a small garden for friends: meritocracy does not exist.
In my small way, in the work I did to survive in these years I simply applied a simple but useful principle:
“Focus on what you are doing at that moment, do your best.”
from the book “Winning” by Jack Welch.
I limit myself to this, because it is not feasible to plan anything else: dreams are poison for the mind and the world is tailor-made only for the rich, the rest of the population has lost the battle to carry out projects before they even start fighting.
Studying what the market requires is useless, one must study what one likes and what one understands, in order to achieve excellence in work, otherwise listless incompetent workers are formed, and Italy is full of them, studying what they want the parents, the one that the market, lying, says to request at that moment.
Knowledge is a serious thing, it is not a time lottery; it is not a piece of cloth with which to dress up, to sell off to the market to the highest bidder.
Given this: the ideas of Forchielli’s book are good ideas, but now in Italy we are exhausted, we have no more resources (above all financial liquidity) to be able to accomplish anything, we are nailed by poverty in this illusory country and I fear that by now the most have come to the same conclusion as me …
After decades of rebuilding from the ashes, every time I did the stupid thing of believing in someone or something, and I was left with the smoke of illusions and lies between fingers, I don’t believe in anything anymore.
Life is made up of people: liars who delude you with promises of love that they do not keep, with promises of work that are non-existent, with empty days waiting to convince themselves that “This is the right time.”, But it is just yet another crush, in a curve of free wickedness, an attitude so dear above all to the “cioccapiatti”, because they feed on this… of disappointment and bitterness that they manage to create in the heart of those who put their trust in them.
Forchielli’s ideas are really good, they are useful tips: but it’s too late.

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