I grew up with my two older brothers and my parents at a 50m2 flat at the working class part of town.
My block was uphill. When we played football in the streets, we would change sides so both teams could get to attack downhill. There were not many cars around.

One of my favorite films of all time, is Sorrentino’s “La Grande Belezza”.
At the end of the film, the protagonist goes to the place he fell in love for the first time, to reconnect to the only thing that he remembered feeling true. I spent my days demystifying everything,
and the truer truth I remember is the truth I was not able to dispute. My childhood.

My childhood what? My childhood friends? Were are they, I don’t know.
My neighborhood? I go there no only because my mom still lives there.
I cannot breath there. The appartment blocks are stacked airthight.
Would have to hang myself out of the balcony to see the sky.

There is nothing left for me there.
No truth, no lies, no mysteries.
The truer truth that still lies around like the kitchen smells on the curtains,
is the misery I tried to escape from.
And the nostalgia for the things I never had; a happy day with my mom and dad together, a meal without a quarell with the five of us, a day just without any stress.

My mom was born on an island, she had to leave against her will. We’d spend a week there every summer. For a week I could breathe. On the ferry ride across, I remember me lightheaded.
Ahead of me was a week without airtight walls and with smiles, my mom’s smiles.
I don’t remember my mother smilling. I wish she did smile more. It cost me she didn’t.

I took her back to her island for a weekend this summer. She is 85 now.
There was nothing left there either. I think for her as well.

I got nowhere to turn back to, even if I need to. It’s sad and it isn’t. I am free somehow. Untied.

It was still great on the ferry though.