martedì, giugno 14, 2016

I'm going home

Writing in a foreign language it's such a refreshing act: it gives you some sort of much needed virginity and prevents you from pomposity. It's a challenge and a tough one, for - as much as you mastered your skills - you'll never feel fully confident. Yet it's also liberating, like a free ride in someone else's shoes. 
Sometimes I like to diverge from my usual path, in order to clear my mind up, but eventually the fascination of my own mother tongue overflows and I cannot do anything but going back. Because foreign words are just letters and syllables, they hold no scent and no colour. They can be appropriate and distinct, but still devoid of memories. They don't shine or bleed and they definitely don't cure.

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