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- FUORIPOSTO -

A fuoriposto ... Sometimes I feel like a strange ornament, which supports where it happens.
An object that is a bit good 'in all corners of the house, but ends up never being in the right place.
I feel I have learned many things, but unfounded, do not know any really good.
It 's so! And 'as if I had walked many paths ed'ogni time I had worried promptly to remove the traces left behind me on my journey.
And I realize what is the fear that those steps lead back to me whenever I move one, or that I think about how and where I walked Until today.

is why, in the end, I never managed to do something better than all the others.
Maybe because when you specialize in something, when the treats in its essence and make it part of your daily newspaper, also end up being that thing. To be identified with it.
And then at that point it becomes difficult to hide the tracks behind you.
people end up noticing them sooner or later. As can be distracted, there will be always someone who, before they see you, see your footsteps on that path.

The fact is that I have always managed to leave the track, before I get those looks from the world that regularly unleashes you from behind. I
strewn behind me, dozens of incomplete works, cakes, raw and unfinished buildings, so that they can be considered true "cold cases". Archived
not for lack of evidence, as the lack of an accused to be put on the bench of the court.
Almost certainly there is all the explanation. And 'I may have chosen not to ever completed anything, just to escape the verdict of those judgments.

as I preferred the cold anonymity of a "no signature on a picture just outlined, only the fear of being present on the day that someone had laid eyes on that picture ... ask who was never the author.
At that point it would be hard to dodge the label and almost impossible to prevent the world to call a "painter."
It was not so much "fall" to scare me, because the fear of falling.

's why today I'm here, sitting at a table with a cigarette between his fingers and eyes red from sleep.
A sleep that is not there, like a woman every night gives you the hole, but still waiting.
And as the smoke goes into my room and ends up creating a pall of smog that seems the sky of Rome played a scale, I'm staying here. A meditation on that subject ...
fuoriposto.

- gm -