Love thus spoke Zarathustra

A cohesive text, something that has a sense, a cluster of symbols that should serve to express ourselves without the help of gestures. The word is proper to men, what theoretically should differentiate them from animals. Alphabet, grammar, syntax, the clothes in the Arno (which then will not be out so clean), years and years, huh! centuries and centuries of study, despair, quarrels and feuds… all so that man could express himself.

A disappointment, rolls and rolls of papyrus, paper and stems that today, for the umpteenth time have proved wasted.

Wasted, simply because you can’t put into words what I feel for you. Mushy, corny, excessive, “cringe”. I don’t care.

I wonder how man can come to feel so intense feelings, emotions so pervasive to estrange us, make us light, make us empty, tear away what is deepest in our souls, turn us, fill us, regenerate us.

How can a person get to this but be afflicted by the eternal spell of not being able to put down on paper what so distresses and frees him. Love is such an empty word, Nietzsche explained it to us, those concepts so deep that they cannot be written on paper are precisely those that will eventually lose meaning. But why …

Rough men, mediocre in heart and soul, afflicted by the constant sorrow of never having had the privilege of tasting what truly love is, took that solemn word once full of meaning and attacked it. They climbed mountains, made scaffolds, threw boulders, destroyed in order to see it. Love.

A madness I never thought I could fall victim to. Love; no more noble, no more powerful, no more dense, no more. Period. Deprived of all meaning, I charged it with devastation, misery, sadness, loneliness, mania, disease, dirt. Love as evil and deceit, love as self-denial.

Then Zarathustra meets the boy, the one who, in order not to suffocate, takes the head off the snake and laughs. He laughs, laughs in the face of death, conjecture, prejudice, life, evil, good.

“All the gods are dead: now we want the superman to live”

Let him live. The superman.

Active nihilism.

You were the one who for Zarathustra was the boy. You made me part of a new reality of which I became a prophet.

In fact.

You to me were what the snake was to the boy.

You shook me, you lifted the fog, you threw the rope, you started. Start. Live.

I had stopped living.

Years and years spent in my absence, years spent in passive love, years gone by. You know, lots and lots more I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you why you’re the only person in the world that I’m sure will never betray the most vulnerable part of me. I know and you know. We know and we believe.

Living.

You brought me back to love life.

“This life, as you now live and have lived it, you will have to live it again and again countless times, and there will never be anything new in it, but every pain and every pleasure and every thought and sigh, and every unspeakably small and great thing in your life will have to return to you, and all in the same sequence and sequence — and so will this spider and this moonlight between the branches and so will this moment and myself.”

I will be ready to relive every moment of my life, to relive the pain of a death never happened, infinite, constant, poignant. I’m ready to relive my life over and over again knowing that I’m gonna get on that bus that morning around 6 a.m. I’m willing to do it all over again, forever. Because then all the evil I have when you hug me disappears. All bad thoughts run away when you look at me. All worries vanish when your lips meet mine.

I never thought I’d be sentimental and yet here I am, using those words that have been forged as weapons for centuries. Refined, cured, arranged for even the most insane of loves to be transcribed.

That in the end then you know everything but you don’t know anything. That the sentences you make are made, yes, but by someone they were written. I don’t know how to tell you that I love you because my words aren’t enough, my emotions aren’t enough, I’m not enough. That in the end it’s just me and me, the phone, the keyboard, sleep and tears. In the end it’s always us, yes, but this time for something different. This time it changed that morning, this time it’s joy.