Sandcastles

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Lavezzi. Pebbles weighing tons, stacked on top of each other by a bored giant child, border a dream bay. At the center, my catamaran, placid and happy, resonates with dance music. At the center of the catamaran, me with my Mac. Pensive.

The wind caresses my hair, runs down my skin and… slowly dissolves me. As if I were made of sand, one grain at a time. Each single grain is a memory, an emotion, an achievement, a wound, a laugh, a tear, a moment. Sandcastles: that’s what we are.

That’s how I feel today. I saw a story of hers, with someone else. The Eiffel Tower as backdrop. Paris, the city that—before me—she had avoided visiting because “it’s the city where I’ll only go with the man of my life.” It’s the city where she went with me, for the first time. And today it’s the city where she is with someone else.

And, let’s be clear, I’m happy for her. It reassures me that she’s with someone. I care for her, I think it’s better for her. Everything went the way it was supposed to and that’s okay.
What dissolves me is the advance of the Nothingness.

The Nothingness from The NeverEnding Story. That void that swallows and erases everything, that devours Fantastica and against which the young Atreyu fights.

How can something so intense, real, deep, visceral… no longer exist? How can you be everything to someone and—just the next day—nothing? How can someone who yesterday was your breath, your vital frequency, the light that illuminated the world and let you see it… today be little more than a stranger?

The wind insists, delicate, on dissolving me. I start to see through my arm.

I remember the first moments together, when she danced half-naked in the house, with neon nails and a super sexy bodysuit. I remember the smile, the first of a thousand others, and that light in her eyes. A light I tell myself I don’t see in the photos now but… what does it matter. You know, I don’t even remember what her features look like anymore.

I think, while my leg has now disappeared.

I think that this life is strange, where everything slowly dissolves. The 30-year friendship with Masino, erased by his wife’s insecurity.
A great connection and feeling with the Redhead, erased overnight a few days ago. The last love I felt.
And above all, everything I was. Everything I felt. All the suffering and happiness, the peaks and abysses. All the emotions and feelings. And finally him, the bastard: Love.

Everything dissolves. She is not what she was. We are no longer what we were. And even less so am I what I was. Sandcastles, all of us.

I’m struggling to type: I’ve lost my left index finger and my right pinky.

I push myself as hard as I can to finish the sentence, to leave one last trace of this life before being swallowed into the Nothingness.
Man has always wondered: “what will remain of me when I’m gone?”. Ultimately, art, great feats, and monuments are but a helpless band-aid on this wound.
But even while we live, after a few months, everything changes.

There, I finally understand!

Finally I’ve found the solut o n. I h pe my hand ho ds up

The Tr th is that, in the e d, the me ning of L ving is simply F w y ! …

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