Ironic how I write without knowing how to read. Ironic how I feel everything, failing to feel you. Ironic how I tell you to stay, while going because tired of being. Ironic how I let you fly away, while broken I have fallen. How ironic how I have eyes to see and ear to hear but I can’t see nor hear no more.

How ironic…

It’s been a while now that I felt the necessity to write in English. My daily life is lived speaking and reading and communicating in English. Often my dreams are in English too, to be honest. Imagine! Often, I mix up words and thoughts between a language and another. Often, I call my mother and I see myself saying: “Ciao, mother! Ni chi le ma?” And I’m not kidding! I always thought English was a beautiful language; not poetic and “rhythmic” like the Italian but very beautiful because… simple, direct… for me at least. For me that I never studied it and only practiced it. For me that was easier to “talk it” than “read it”. In fact, I never been the first in my class in English but I always have been the one that tried the most. And if there is anything that time taught me so far is that trying is learning. You can read as much as you want from books, you can read all the online articles and watch all the movies with subtitles you want, but will always be the trying that will teach you. Like walking! You may wish as much as you want to run but if you never try (and if you never fall trying), you never will walk and never will run! Its part of the process. Always been and always will. This doesn’t mean we don’t have to study from books ah! It just means that we have to study from books and learn from life, that’s all!

How ironic…

I find myself speak to young people, now. I find myself speak in the schools: to the students and to the teachers. I find myself speak to leaders in foreign companies. I find myself seeking so much for others and at the same time so little for myself, right now. So little for the people I love. So little for you.

How ironic…

How ironic is… a broken spirit.