Turning wheels

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“Even the stupid tent resembles vaguely your own home. Anyway, all my possessions seem to me as if they were alive. You could call it a taste of equipment.” A. Bobkowski

I move slowly, groping, immersed in all of that as if in dense fog, still being invited, invariably endowed. Without a deeper purpose I indulge in all of those everyday, warm, friendly occurences, looking at them with sincere amazement. I still meet up incredibly caring and hospitable people. There are so many of them, that it begins to be embarrassing. The man on the road who gave me a big loaf of bread and refused to get paid, a professor Luisi in Taco Ralo, who invited me to dinner, and then took to thermal springs, Marco, whose incredible hospitality I experienced for the second time…

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How difficult is not to have a probably distorted vision of the world, which is exaggerated and perhaps deceitful; the vision not often shared with others, that the world is good. That people are good. And that I contribute to that vision. That I create the world day by day, in every moment of my life. Opening myself for other people, for their cultures, having time to talk with them, showing a desire to understand them. Even if I only conjure up something that is not there, I’m not going to change it. I feel good here. I feel good on that road. The wheels are spinning, the stars are flickering in the sky. The head is full of colors. Warm, bright, cheerful. I put my hand into the pocket. A pebble whispers gently. The sun warms, the wind blows, the leaves rustle, the birds talk. And I will stick to it.

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