We are one, none and a hundred thousand versions of us, claimed Pirandello. What is our real self? What we show to others, what we see in the mirror or what lives on in the memories after our celestial departure? We are neither, and all of those. We are nothing. We exist, until we don’t anymore.

The human obsession of representing the self, of leaving marks of our own importance becomes suddenly poor and sad, once the grandeur is gone. A head without its bust, a binocular looking towards the emptiness, a soldier condemned to look forever at its own unmovable legs – they were all big, once. They were the prime symbols of greatness, courage and innovation, and now they’re only ruins, forgotten by the world, hugged by the fallen leaves, shelter for mice.

We are what we are, and soon we won’t be anymore. It’s useless to concern oneself with the future; whatever will happen, will happen. It’s just life and death, and we can’t escape it.

Copyright  © 2017 Lavinia Nuvola. All rights reserved.