The habit and the exercise of writing awakened in me the perceptions I did not yet know to possess; in my soul there was a Poet, timid and fearful of human beings, whose intrigued gaze allowed me to see the surrounding environment under different aspects. With the arrival of autumn, the hills of the Ferro Monalatto bloom new life; the vineyards arranged disorderly on the slopes of the hills, wear colorful clothes, the palm leaves go from red to intense yellow, from green to brown and communicate, with these nuances worthy of a painter, a warmth that warms the heart. The acacia woods are lit with that yellow that contains all the strength of the sun, the pine woods keep a dark and shady green and the fields, whose borders of wild bushes wear a reddish worthy of royal clothes, they pale, as if they were afraid of the arrival of the harsh winter.
A few days before the start of the school, while I was swinging on the swing that my uncle had built for me after the accident with the Alguco, my eyes rested on a tree in front, a few steps from where I was and with I noticed how much his appearance had changed; I wondered if it had happened all night, suddenly. I remembered the green leaves of that plum tree and I could not understand the beauty that had suddenly reached each other from day to day in red and yellow; those two colors merged into the thick foliage of that tree, giving life to a picture of a beauty that left me breathless. I looked around and saw that even the trees at the end of the driveway had changed, even those on the other side of the hill were suddenly dressed up to celebrate the Autumn. All this moved me, the beauty of that transformation was fantastic, I found it a sort of masked ball to honor the summer and greet her with warmth and liveliness. The need arose in me to sing that show with words; it was an extraordinary fact that deserved to be remembered with appropriate words. I ran to my room, went up four steps at a time the stairs, grabbed my diary and the keys of his lock that I jealously stored in the belly of a stuffed rabbit, then I went back to the garden and sat down on the swing. I began to reflect on how I could praise the wonder of colors that was shown to my eyes and then it happened as if by magic that the words were placed on the white paper by themselves, as if a mysterious recall had brought them to me. At just eight years the poems that you learn at school are very simple, but from those few verses I had studied I had learned to grasp the melody of the words used to describe something, that touched the strings of my heart and made them vibrate. I ran to my mother to decant my cleverness and my compositions; like all the mothers who considered her son a fool and a naive, she showed a false interest in my creatures and after a few minutes she had already forgotten what I had made her read.
My father’s indifference was not far behind; on Sundays, at the table during lunch, absolute silence was imposed on those present in the name of television: once it was sport, once the news, then the film. Even today this unhealthy habit of listening to that blathering box that spits idiocy, silencing the family present, accompanies us every moment of our domestic life. I stayed there, sitting at the table with my head down and whatever I had to say, the television surpassed me, she, that damn box of the cathode ray tube, was more important than me. With the passing of the years, my feeling of being an invisible ghost within the family increased dramatically; my parents were too busy with their chores to dedicate a minute to me. Over time I learned to keep myself company alone and the Poet in this was really an exemplary friend. I spoke alone, I played alone and I had the only comparison with my ideas and my writings. In the morning I spent it in the company of my companions who, after years and days of crying because of bad things I did not understand, had finally become friends; the afternoon I would go back to the fields around the house with my dog and I would run happily in the castles and woods of my imagination, where no human being could reach me.
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