Panbesulio Between the pages of this blog too often ironic, I thought it important to reserve a space for thoughts and stories of my little friend Panbesulio.
few of you, I believe, I know, although in recent months has been the most faithful companion of my long, solitary walks. I will try then to present it.
Panbesulio is a dog, or maybe a bug, or maybe just a child. When I spoke some French friends for the first time, I described him as a monster of nature. "You
a insettuccio, I was told that he needs to make love all day, frantically, on the whole: females on the first of its kind or any object that happens to throw, it makes no difference to him." But when I met him when I was traveling to Barcelona with Maria, I discovered that the reality was very different from the legend that was spreading. Only to hear him speak, still ringing in his way accompanied by many small things, I was struck the tenderness of his person, from the uncommon sensitivity to the sun hidden behind that mask of joy and unbridled sensuality - in fact a boyish enthusiasm for everything that happens under his senses - he was forced to wear by the capricious taste of his supposed friends since then, the taste you can make fun of him in his faults, which would otherwise become aware, and feel ashamed.
Moved by the precarious conditions in which it was when I met him, I decided to adopt it. Thus, by the end of last summer, since my return from Athens, Panbesulio lives with me. Every day my company holds hours of walking, walking together, sometimes speak, making a few jokes and commentary on the people passing on the things that happen around us, on the streets, on houses, on the written submissions in which we encounter, and above all the treasures of nature that both admire, more often, but and despite its extreme liveliness hyperkinetic, taciamo: we limit ourselves to contemplate, and to preserve the beautiful images in his heart. In the evening, then, we exchange each other's impressions of what led us to dream, or meditate. His observations, seemingly innocent, never cease to amaze me, and giggle a skeptic who regularly nourish you draw on my face as soon as Panbesulio begins to speak, lie invariably ends up in a radiant smile of grateful consideration.
But my gratitude for the entry of this wonderful to be in my life has reached the point of maximum joy a few days ago. It was morning, and I was exceptionally woke before noon; Panbesulio, however, continued to sleep, hopefully abandoned the warmth of his bunk with his little mouth wide open. For some time I'm watching him breathe so tender and helpless, when my attention was drawn to a paper that had left the night before on the table, along with colored pencils, I initially believed it concerned one of those weird designs that both likes to do, but then I recognized a poem. By reading it, I moved. Why I never thought that behind the overwhelming and cheerful playfulness of his nature, one could hide a soul to which Fate has set aside the sadness. From that day the little Panbesulio feel closer than ever. But here's the poem:
My heart is a stone, black, round, smooth, on which raindrops fall - the wink of life. Fall, but the stone is cold and can not retain them. And every drop slides along the surface, slowly, slowly, slide and then get lost, like a tear. Over time, however, a small basin was excavated at the point where, drop by drop, knock life. And on the hollow has formed a small reflecting pool. So now, if you look at my stone from above, one can distinguish one eye, who quietly contemplates changing the performance that the world has to offer. And occasionally, his eyes moved and grateful, wistful leaked a tear.
Ps.: Some may wonder what right post on my blog pages of the diary of my young friend. The truth is that I could not do otherwise. So great is the friendship that has bound us in the months ultmi that, omitting his anecdotes and observations, I seem to miss something that is now also part of me. And it's the same Panbesulio that he asked me. In recent days, only repeats with exasperating insistence: "When I do the blog? When did I do the blog? ". At first he wanted to put up a blog of his own, but I was adamant: I said that is too small, and that for some years do not talk. I'm too apprehensive? I do not know. But I would like to avoid that his heart could easily fall into traps of bad people lurking on the network. Prudence on the Internet is never enough.
hug you all, Henry
