Miriam 31 – Today I feel weird, dear Andre.
Today I didn’t want to stop and think about anything, I was fleeing every moment of solitude, I did everything I could to keep myself busy, especially mentally. And so now, stopping and telling my day puts me in front of the real reason why I’ve been running away since I opened my eyes. Maybe today I started to realize, even after yesterday’s diaries where we discussed “the aftermath”, that I am walking towards a destination that most likely, indeed certainly – and you cannot understand the pain it causes me – won’t taste like I expected, won’t have the colours I know, the ways of comfort I love, the old habits that reassure me. It’s going to be black and white, perhaps tasteless, a destination that looks like something I know, but that is not known at all.
A halfway destination.
I wish I could say I’ll be happy, and probably I will, but it’s going to be a happiness so mixed up with melancholy that it will look much more like the latter.
Victor Hugo used to say that melancholy is nothing other than the happiness of being sad.
Maybe ours will be a new melancholy, it will be the sadness of being happy.
Or being half happy.
Andrea 31 – Feeling fifty percent good. No wonder. There are some people, more prone to change, that are feeling almost completely good. They’ve already found their dimension in this situation. Mainly it’s those who don’t live alone and who have adequate financial security, having a stable job even in this situation. A friend of mine told me that. He said he got rid of all the useless meetings and inefficient sides of his job and now, from home, he can manage the work in 4 hours instead of the usual 10 he would spend in the office. After 31 days, the ability to adapt in those particularly favourable conditions has already taken place. Inside the house, though. Yesterday I understood how difficult it will be to adapt outside these four walls. I went to collect the grocery shopping, my car was parked just outside the building and this is what I had to do: get out of the building, get in the car, drive for 8,8 km, get into the parking lot, wear a woollen scarf as if it was a medical mask, wear latex gloves, type a code on some kind of keyboard. Then they bring you the groceries, they leave the cart 2 metres from you, you load the groceries in the car, then drive back for another 8,8 km. You go back home. Human contact, almost non existent. Yet I felt I was in an episode of Black Mirror. I looked from the outside to a life I didn’t know. Turin seems to be doing well, it almost feels like an endless August, when you find a few people in the streets but of a peculiar humanity. Like the humanity I saw yesterday, of people running with jeans and many dogs in tow. But also a tender and yet afraid humanity, that of supermarket clerks, observed in a moment of pause when, exhausted by the job and the tension, they put off their medical masks to send a voice message to their parents or their friends. People working, whose advantage to go out everyday cannot be called like that anymore, because it looks more like a risk for the survival. And yet their movements are fluid. Maybe they were clumsy and awkward 31 days ago, when they still didn’t know how to behave between them, wearing medical masks that hide smiles and gloves giving rubbery handshakes. Like me yesterday, inexperienced inhabitant of a never-ending August.