This blog looks lately as barren as my life in the last month. Nothing wrong with it... Otherwise, I would not "ritrovai (myself) per una selva oscura".
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Today, as I do sometimes, I have walked from Euston to Highbury & Islington tube station, all the way up Pentonville Road and straight-ahead Upper Street, passed Angel. It is a nice 60-minute walk to be refreshed, full of pretty-looking people having dinner in nice-looking restaurants or having drinks in pubs. When I feel lonely it is not very pleasant, although I know that loneliness in company is the worst of its kind.
Right outside Highbury & Islington station I saw an image, not surprising anymore: a beggar reclined on the sidewalk hoarding its misery, holding an open book on his knees and talking in self-assurance through a cell phone. If I don't lose myself before, I will have to record a documentary with a factual message -how many times I have mentioned it!: the book as a hide-away shelter. And portrait the so-typical, so-familiar but universal image of the urban homeless reading a book inside his bag, in a puddle of dirt. It is the dark-side of the come-to-the-books-and-you-will-see horseshit.
Eight minutes later, a bald man, around 45, bad taken and ill-conserved, travels in the train reading a newspaper almost in tatters. He seems content, though. He is wearing shabby clothes and has not-cleaned hands. In his shirt's pocket he has stuffed an empty, half-a-litter can of Fosters... .
Ladies: such is the inextricable effect of loneliness on us men.
(PLEASE, LEAVE YOUR COMMENT).
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