So here I am

Since I have memory I loved books and reading them. It was nice to open a new book, stick the nose in those pages and closed the eyes with one deep breathe smell that new adventure that was about to come.

My first meeting with some kind of reading, out of school homework, it happened to be with Goosebumps. I could never forget it.

Down in the basement of my parent’s house we had plenty of Goosebumps books, it was all my sister’s collection. My mother didn’t want me to read them, saying I was too young, and that I had to focus on school first, so I had to take them when she wasn’t looking. I remember, after dinner, saying goodbye to everyone and pretend I was going to sleep, then waiting till everyone else was gone to sneak out of the bed, do all the stairs on the darkness trying to make less noise possible, grab a book and then quickly go back to my bedroom where I could read peacefully with the help of a torch. Those where my small victories, even though because of that, now I need reading glasses all the time.

After that I remember discovering Harry Potter, and was love at first sight. Book after book I was anxious waiting for J. K. Rawling to write the the next chapter of that amazing adventure. Then finally, when the book was out, I remember running after class, buy it, eat it up in few days and start again to starve, waiting for the next one. I use to save money only for that one purpose.

In those days I discovered the joy of writing. I had few diaries, even, in the middle school, a sharing one. It was a diary where I was writing with three of my classmates. We where two boys and two girls and it was all about knowing each other better. That was the age when we where getting more curious about the opposite sex, when kids had no phones and to ask a girl out we had to use pieces of note books and they for answer had to use a big X. Yes or not. That was our golden age and it was fun.

In the high school I remember discovering other authors, like Orwell, Bradbury and Huxley, and realize that there was more to know, books were not only about magic, that to read a book sometimes it could be not enough. I had to understand them. How hard it was to immagine a world where all the books had to be destroyed and where the people on power pushed the population to be ignorant.

I became worried. What if all of this was about to happen? What about all those books I had never read? It was a disaster. I started with all the big classics. I discovered Hemingway, and I loved him, Hesse, Joyce, Cervantes. I was hungry of knowledge, I was reading books and letterature of dead people and I was happy.

Slowly I started to realize that the best generation of writers did already walk on the Earth and no one it would never have been able to come even close to them for the impact and power of them words.

It was there, I think, I started to detest social media. In my mind they were the cause of this generational lost of values. Illusive television with junk programs, social networks like facebook and twitter, were the defeat of originality. All my heroes from my favorite books were dying and no one was going to say a word about it, because nobody could care less. On the web people were fighting and arguing about frivolous problems forgetting the real problems. This platforms gave the opportunity to normal people to act differently, refusing them real personality and creating instead a new better one, that everybody could like, thinking that was really important.

I was ashamed. I stopped watching TV, any time that a conversation was going to a brain-washing program I changed subject or just left the company. Even listen to the radio became hard. All the music was the same, few artist I could tollerate and I could find them on you tube. I watched movies and read news only on PC. It was enough.

Then I started to travel, new places, new people, new ideas. One day speaking with a friend I realize that maybe not all the social media are as bad as I thought they were. All those people creating a new personality out there on the web maybe didn’t like what they were before, and who was I to judge them anyway? All this platforms can give the possibility to speak to that someone who otherwise will be voiceless for he’s entire life.

Even writing looked easier.

So many people were doing it, writing blogs, giving advises and opinions.

Why I couldn’t do the same? Why I couldn’t tell my story? I was hungry of real life, I wanted a life out of too much technology, to travel and to try the hard life of other places. To tell my story. To leave a sign.

So here I am.


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