Dear mom,
I’m writing to you from the loneliness of this shiny tower. The ocean’s waves hit hard at its foundation, wind gusts come and go, but the tower stands stubbornly, strong and impenetrable. It’s a calm night out there tonight, and the ocean is tranquil. A quiet, icy moon reflects in the waters.
Just came back from my daily duties, came to a rest, sitting here on top of the tower looking over an ocean that is now unsurpassable. I want to say how happy I am to have finished my chores. I started early in the morning, checking every resort, all the ropes and all connections to make sure the kaleidoscope will spin smoothly, reflecting and distorting the lives of the inhabitants of the tower. My morning passage is more about the springs. They’re built hundreds of years ago in iron forges. Rocks were melted, then poured into models to create long bars. Bars were then melted and stretched to the point of their resistance. That muscular arm protected by corduroy gloves has mended the incandescent metal to make the springs. Now, I only check on them daily, always starting from the top of the tower, and moving to the bottom, walking clockwise to inspect them, run my bare fingers about the oily metal to check for any cracks, any signs that might show the smallest sign of wearing out, then slightly hitting with my little hammer to listen for any unusual sounds. They always respond to my little knocks in some kind of notes, sound reverberating on the circular walls, a music that is not music. I make sure every single one is greased enough, and if I have the faintest doubt, I drop a little oil from my oil jug, rubbing it along the metal with a piece of cloth. As soon as I am done with the springs, I eat a frugal lunch, some bread and meat, chewing fast and impatient. Impatient because I should start checking the ropes before is getting too late. The ropes I check from the bottom to the top. I move my hand over them, dragging them and analyzing every single fiber. If I see any breakage, I will record it in the book. I will evaluate its size and the urgency of repair. I need to move at the same pace, going counterclockwise to make sure I am not missing one. Once I am done, I’m running down the stair to report the problems to the rope master, before the sun lowers too much on the horizon. Together will reinspect the ropes with problems, he will make a plan of when and how they have to be repaired. When the inspection is done, the kaleidoscope slows down, a sign that the visitors will exit it and leave. Then I will start inspecting the springs again, one by one, starting from the top and ending at the bottom, making sure I verify every single one with the same accuracy I did in the morning. The kaleidoscope won’t stop completely overnight. The springs may have to be checked again in the morning.
This, as I describe it here, is hard work. We all struggle with our lives, but the purpose is high. People come here, enter the kaleidoscope, look at their distorted images and smile and laugh. Even for a few moments, they are happy. I’m looking at them and I feel good for them, to see their merry faces. But then, they have to move, leave room for the next group, for the next batch of happiness to be shared. Another bunch of people enter, and our perpetually moving mirrors, reflects gorgeous lights and mirrors beautiful faces. The hunched, the ugly, the deformed becomes tall, becomes muscular, faces turns glamorous. The short-lived fake life has an unbelievable effect on the people. They exit our shop in a different mood. They had the chance to see their entire appearance changed for good. Honestly, I don’t know what happens to them after, but seeing them inside the kaleidoscope and then for those few minutes upon exiting makes me proud of my work. It gives me the reason to come back to this apparently dull work.
Yesterday I found time to stay by the beach and look at the ever boiling sea. I remember of who I am and where I came from. I was walking the sandy beach towards a green area where a river joins the mighty sea. Trees are growing green in the breeze, their leaves rattle in the wind. Plants grow happily on its banks, and in the springtime millions of flowers bring color to the marsh. Bees were buzzing tirelessly in the warm air, perfumes were spreading in the air. I sat there on a log that was carefully polished by the salty waters and stared at the vivacity with which the marsh was filling the space. Birds of all kinds, small or big, flew over happily. Some landed on limbs of trees and sang in a thousand voices. There, between the susurration of the ocean and songs of the birds, I remembered of you. I recalled the childhood and your care. I remembered how you loved the birds and their song, how you were pausing from your daily chores, to listen to them and be happy for just those few moments you could afford. These brought memories of our mountains, of their clear waters that ceased to flow, of their fresh springs that ceased to spring, of their forests that ceased to stand. I wonder now, how comes I couldn’t appreciate them more.
In this world I am living now, happiness is quantified with clear measures. Everything is available for a price that is strictly correlated with the intensity and the length of the happiness they bring. And to pay the price, you just have to make strict commitments and you can have all. When the happiness you bought is done, you commit to more, and more, and more.
A seagull landed near me and walking around me in circles. I knew he wanted me to share a piece of my meat with him, but I was instructed not to feed wildlife. No interaction between us and wild life is allowed. We’ve done enough to alienate the good balance of the natural world. If I compile, I would be proud of respecting the rules of of my species. But I shared. The bird hungrily picked the meat scrap I threw and swallowed. Then asked for more. Suddenly, I forgot about the laws and recommendations and befriended the seagull. I am thinking of the birds in the marsh and the imaginary world revealed by the moving mirrors of the kaleidoscope. Where stands the boundary between who we are and who we want to be?
You, my dear mom, probably never saw the sea or the ocean, you could never contemplate the immense blue of open waters meeting the even bluer sky, but now I can remember that your soul was just as blue and peaceful as this infinite heaven. For what in the world I gave up on my childhood, on your motherhood? What a scam was the promise of a free adulthood. What an illusion is the world as it was created by gods, God or man. Damn all founders or creators, or whatever they are, damn all their superior plans. For what did they create all the beauty of the world if the beings to enjoy it are only here to prepare for another heaven? Why did they create all the pain and sufferance, all the fears and worries and gave them to pure souls as yours? They told us to search for justice, but what is the sacrifice for all these illusory promises that never happen?
When men created saints, they probably looked at themselves and imagined the most striking contraries of what they were. Or if God has done it, it must have been an absurd idea. If he created this world in the primordial week of the beginning of time just to randomly share the sacrifice, I don’t know what the plan was, if there was any plan.
I was looking over my shoulder at the shining building that stores our kaleidoscope, and I felt desperate. I was crying in silence for you and the way you had to exit this unfair world.
I wish I would have been there to hold your hand for a little longer, but I rushed to the illusions of impossible hopes. Was it fear that I saw in your eyes? I don’t know, but I know you somehow found the strength to navigate the waters of the unknown passage between the worlds and find the shore of the paradise that you deserve.
It’s here in the chorus of these birds that I dream of you reaching the borders of the evergreen meadows, the place where all your dear ones that traveled before were waiting to guide you through the land that offers what’s the fairest for everybody.
I walked back to my chores. The sea splashed me with salty waters, a breeze was gently waving through my hair, and a flock of happy birds was heading towards a happy place. I watched them going, and I was thinking of you, of you leaving all your fears behind to journey to somewhere where to share your love and care for those that parted before, just the same as you did for me, for us.
I don’t know if there is another life, if “the forever” is a true or just an invention, but I know nothing will end this love I have for you, the love I feel you have for me.
Fare well, my purest soul!
words-of-mine 