It was a cloudy winter night. The wide sky was dark and quiet, without the slightest halo of the moon. The stars too, were far away, sparkling on another man beneath the night. Little waves were softly murmuring all around me as I crossed the ancient pavements of Venice, heading to an unknown place. The sea was carrying the sweet sound of lost times when people were used to listening to the World Symphony and I stopped on the verge of a bank mirroring the black surface.
I had had a couple of beers and I decided to go there, to Venice; there were not any good reasons to do so but, I reckoned, there were neither bad ones. The train was silent, completely emptied of the daily unstoppable flow of people going to the floating city. And now, I’m here, looking at these awkward squares and these narrow calles, once crowded with thousands of frenetic lives, currently hosting my lonely steps.
It’s a misty night; a mystic atmosphere has penetrated the inner essence of this city, giving it a unique gloomy appearance. I’m feeling part of something vast and indecipherable. The breeze is gently sighing my name and I’m following that untouchable path. To where?
I don’t know: I will follow the signs the starless night is giving to me. I do not need to know what is expected of me.
The noise has disappeared, both outside and inside. My mind is slowly falling into a calm state. I’m not rushing, the city is sleeping magically under a foggy blanket and I look around every once and then, trying to grasp with my eyes the feeling I’m experiencing in the depths of my chest. I’m captivated by the cradling of a plethora of tiny waves dancing all over the surface of the bottomless sea.
My body feels torn, consumed by the violent burning pace of living, yet my soul has been revitalised. Nobody is out there. Not a single human being, not a single living being.
Alone with myself and with the breath of a cold night running through my backbone.
I finally reach the edge of this path, a lonely triangular piece of land where a solemn church wearing a candid dress is towering over the uproarious sea. It’s 4 a.m. or 5 a.m., I don’t know. The time looks frozen by the thick darkness of Winter. I take a sit to rest my tired legs and allow my body to recover from the chaotic day just passed,
This must be the place. Something is telling me so. It could be the rhythmic symphony of the waves or the delicate blow of the wind. Or even something in my guts.
But I’m persuaded. This must be the place.
I button up my purple coat tightly because the heart of the night reaches out with its icy fingers, throwing treacherous needles everywhere. The lifeless city seems under a spell, frozen and torpid, caught in a melancholic snowball glass. I let myself take a couple of deep breaths with my eyes set on the far undistinguishable horizon; some lonely lamp posts shape the borders of the city immersed in the lagoon as the thick mist begins to clear.
Minutes passed.
Suddenly a cat makes his appearance on the verge of the pavement as if the water itself has sent him on the wet ground. He sets his jaundiced eyes into mine and we embrace the silence meeting of our souls. Two peregrine and lonely spirits wandering in a magical city and attending the slow course of the night. Two living beings tasting life spreading vividly from an unanimated city carrying the lights of a myriad of links. And a new, intimate and instantaneous bond forms; those wide, yellow eyes will constellate many of the future nights.
What has it brought? When will everybody eventually wake up? Shall we meet again, staring at the tide when the hours are turning darker?
He’s gone, now.
I’m feeling dazzled as I’m living this eternal night without skipping a second, embracing the anguish of darkness, loving the loudest calm enlivening these ancient stones. I get up and I slowly make a couple of steps forward. The water is almost reaching the curb and I lean out to see my face reflected into that smooth, polished mirror. I can’t clearly distinguish my features. It’s way too dark. But the shape of my body, the fatigue of my limbs, the fire of being present, here and now, all of them are glistening on the surface of the sea.
Abruptly, the breeze has changed and I smell something new in the pungent air. The scent I’m odouring in the salty cocktails of the lagoon’s vapours is unmistakable and it was subtle countering the one I had been surrounded by during the unbreakable dark hours.
I smell the perfume of a warm cathartic sunray; a lonely, golden particle of the sun was hovering through the dawnish mist, sparking bright reflections on the drops of water hanging to the ceiling of the church’s porch.
I wonder when the sun started blasting his vital essence and where that luminous star is hiding. I look over the end of the red roofs of Venice, over the undefined boundaries of the lagoon, over there, where the leaden sky dives into the dull water and my sight becomes bleary. Right there, a dim light, almost evanescence, comes steadily to life covering the waves and the clouds with a vibrant layer of pure heat. Slowly and nicely, this honey-made tide starts painting the world of darkness and cold with warm colours and bright shades. The morose atmosphere that vested the city with ethereal and mystic shadows leaves the place to a new setting, as the sun rises in the sky tearing apart the thin blanket of clouds.
And I am still there, watching a purgative/evocative dawn taking the place of an obscure winter night, both equally marvellous, both Masters and Demiurges of the inexplicable.
I belong to this feeling: to owe myself a thrilling mysterious night and to warm my bones in the ashen light of the day. I belong to the wilderness of living. Everything else disappears, the mind goes blank, the consciousness falls asleep and I can’t be bothered by anything in this rumbling, deaf World.
The only certain thing is the running flow of feelings and perceptions, thoughts and impressions, fears and astonishment; it makes my veins burn in fire and my eyes widen in awe. Awe ancient as the world is, coming from the absolute belief that living is hazardous and dreadful but rare and beautiful.
May the stars always lead your way and
May the road takes you far away
Last Balladeer
