I tried in every way to postpone the sending of this fateful letter, desperately seeking and collecting answers from all the readers who wrote to you and to whom you answered, but nothing: I can’t find the right words to help me get out from this stalemate in which I have felt parked for a long, long time.
I am G., Sicilian male in his early thirties whose life has not spared joys and sorrows – like everyone else. I have a strange relationship with Love, this stranger, and an even stranger relationship with love, with a lowercase “a” not by chance. Long single, a little by choice a little by necessity: to quote Gianluca Picariello, aka Ghemon, “since high school my life has been a gynoecium, me and women linked like Andromeda and Perseus”, but more in the sense that I try to be a meeting place for women, for friends, sometimes for some lover: I listen a lot, I occasionally dispense some advice specifying that I do not want to be heard, and I observe everything while retaining my very personal opinions for myself.
Equipped (and I am proud of it) of one extraordinary sensitivity, well connected to that feminine part that every man has within him and that often rejects, I have loved and have made myself loved for many years, sometimes leaving good memories and other times bitter disappointments – like everyone else. To complete the picture, I am suffering from an incurable red cross syndrome, indefatigable silent helper and listener of all and all, always available, always intent on reaching out to find some time for someone or something, time too often given away and never returned, but I don’t mind.
Well, these are the premises. Now I ask myself and I ask you: what happens to me? Why can’t I get out of this parking lot? Because my incurable optimism does not help me to get out of the mechanism according to which, when others ask me “How are you?” I answer “I am serene but I am not happy”? And above all, because if there is a Peppa that you women have the right and the pleasure to keep you, I cannot keep a Peppa for more than a few months, before being debased by what – in my opinion – is an exaggerated need. of physical presence and demand for certainties? I say, for my partner “I am there”, with all the maximum of my time, with gestures more than words, with small and large attentions: isn’t that enough? What did I miss? My level of apathy and distrust has also led me to fill the day with commitments to not even have time to know or hang out with someone, I want to have something to do all day so as not to stop and think, let alone if I want to find myself playing the part in which you have to show who you really are at all costs, sitting at a table in a club in the center in front of two drained cocktails of alcohol.
I add – and forgive me if I have dwelt but it serves for clarity of information – that the last two loves (or Amori?) have been turbulent and trying for different reasons: one that ended for accumulated anger, for unsolved mysteries, for characters that are too similar and at the same time too different – amen and healed the wounds we return to the square. The second, after two years and a bit of regained confidence in oneself and in the human race, ended without explanations, without messages, without answers.
In short, dear Ester, here between the lines there is a desperate need for your coldest and at the same time enlightening words, or for an unexpected hug. I don’t expect anything but I know you have something for me, and for that I thank you in advance.
A big hug
Ester Viola’s answer
there are no bankruptcies, there are no advice.
It’s just that if you put them together, the things you learn every time something ends, you always have less than what you started with. Nothing is gained from experience because we think that an original case has happened to us and is not covered by precedents.
E if the experience is not worth it, what does it matter? What do they have, those who seem so apt to make people fall in love? If you look closely: nothing. We have all been the great love of someone we didn’t want.
But we keep the naive certainty that there are the capable, those who are able to build them from nothing, the feelings. Better yet: to make them last.
The love manual would be needed, G., I know. Or at least a dozen ways to be able to strengthen those soft roots, make him grow straight and strong until the buds of eternity sprout. Or at least half a flower.
I envy this trust you have in me. In two thousand five hundred years the best have failed, science has given up, medicine has had to invent psychoanalysis. Only the literature insists: in the absence of medications, at least a good word.
But we said we try today. And then: Ars amandi, an instruction leaflet. Here is the compendium already started some time ago:
Constant presence. Not recommended. Everyone likes relying on someone, but from “I’m an extremely helpful person” to “butler” is a snap.
Constant absence. Not recommended. The unsolved egoist who cares about you is like ripped jeans, a must-have at twenty, grossly ridiculous after twenty-nine. In the long run, the absentees do without.
Be very myself. Not recommended. If spontaneous it means “I say what I think, I always behave as I want, because that is me”, you should unstitch the medal. That will be you too, but “it’s me” says absolutely nothing about your worth. Sincerity is an intermittent quality. The world likes your controlled version, the one that is committed, the one that tries to be a little better than it is. Eternal love is nothing more than the pact between two people for a perennial reasoned calculation of the consequences.
Be scientific. Not recommended. Attitude that does not pay. Or rather, it would pay as well, but every calculation is a preview of sacrifice. Nothing ages like refined strategies.
Be docile. Not recommended. Too much peace corrodes. You are a bore, and boredom is the old age candy.
Being a quarrel. Not recommended. People think about the liver first and then about you. In the long run you send crazy, they run away and do well. It is not lack of love, it is self-defense.
Be hasty. Not recommended. Good things take time.
Being too slow. Not recommended. “I have never known of a skilled military operation protracted for a long time, while I have seen daring operations succeed only for the speed of execution” (the most depressing truths are all in the Sun-Tzu).
Separate houses. Independence. Not recommended. Independence from whom? There are two of you now.
Sweethearts who keep their distance as a self-imposed conservation tactic do exist. Usually they sell themselves as a beautiful couple who have chosen the healthy autonomy of separate houses, in reality they do not know that they are two deluded. Postponing the main test is not necessary. Of “waiting for the right moment” you die. Anyway, when it comes to love, Saturn is always there, against.
Moving in together. Not recommended. Anyone, if you go to live together, will become familiar to you as a piece of bread.
Be the more in love of the two. Not recommended. It means living with the constant impression of being able to lose health.
Be the less in love of the two. Not recommended. It means living with the constant impression of being able to lose happiness.
What remains, when one realizes it? The numbers. When you have no more hope, the statistic remains: the more the failures increase, the more the chances increase.
Footnote: the brightest ones I know in the sentimental field go wild wondering little or nothing. People with a brute and sparkling practical sense, little tendency to analysis (sometimes confused by sloppiness), very attentive to what to do rather than “how I feel”.
Too much importance to love – they are the ones who understood it.
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