One time, when you met another person, it was customary to ask: how are you?
Today such a question is best avoided, unless you go in search of answers ranging from sardonic to distressed, angry glances or motions of discouragement. Insomma, sooner or later you end up getting on your nerves.
The fact is, the situation is, quando va bene, quite wearing, and when it goes wrong, damn tragic.
Shakespeare wrote that "We too are made of the stuff dreams are made of", and then I say that this year is made of the same stuff that nightmares are made of, not to mention that other material whose consistency is measured on the Bristol Scale.
No fairs, no exhibitions, no competitions, and so also the desire to do, intimate or by emulation, to dirada, lost among the numbers that flood the news, and with them our thoughts.
Distant, we have to stay away, fear of touching reigns, see each other, talk, but separation brings psychological isolation within itself, a prison of the spirit, four very thick walls that do not allow even a ray of aesthetic transcendence to filter through, that inspiration that makes us recognize beauty even in the simplest things.
I am well aware that, tutto sommato, I am always the same as always (purtroppo o per fortuna), and that I should be able to apply myself with fervor and gusto to what gives me the opportunity to express creativity. Unfortunately, this fast-paced health care that has lasted for a year now takes away mental strength, depresses the imagination, inaridisce le font, turns off the inspiration, minimizes the abstract and the inessential.
At this point countermeasures were urgent, otherwise, given my character, sooner or later I would have made it impossible for a lot of people close to me to exist.
So I started playing, I went back to when I was a ten-year-old girl. I didn't have many toys then, however cats and shoe boxes were never lacking, they were plot, stage, scenography, actors and audience for the wonderful adventures that my fantasy was setting up every afternoon. But ... and yet ... if I had owned a Quiet Book it would have been impossible to break away from it, I would have literally consumed it, other than boxes and cats!
Here it is then, my third Quiet Book, a natural analgesic against melancholy e, as Ernesto said, against the wear and tear of modern life.
Buon divertimento.