On Scripts and Characters

On Scripts and Characters


I keep my fingers on the mouse and the red flame crawling on the table
Hands outstretched
My palms inhale the energy I barely know anything about
and I imagine it like an electrification
of various scenes
like in a movie
which almost to the end is concerns some Characters
no connection between them
and in which I find out they interweave without touching or meeting one another
but flagellate themselves trying to endure their own scripts
and lines they don’t desire, which torture and transform them into
other characters that in their turn flagellate themselves trying to endure their own scripts
and lines they don’t desire
lines which torture and transform them into other characters


and here maybe we meet a couple living out the eternal drama of the conflict
between the one who cares more for the other
and the one who cares less than the other
and where there is more lying
and where there is less lying
and then
still more
when one is always waiting
for the other
who expects something completely different
and where each of them expects
- as you can well see -
something else
yet they keep on living together
like two characters trying to endure their own scripts
and lines that
maybe
they don’t desire


in which maybe we have some kind of a story about someone who
writes messages to an imaginary friend
whose picture hangs in a frame
and who writes in his turn
about himself and others
who write in their turn about others
in some sort of a book containing all books
but in which nobody has ever believed
because it is only at the boundary between writing
and promising
a promise which will include all the books written and unwritten
for which our character ever forgets to breathe
and sinks into a series of dizzying images
that consume in a second
his existence
and reduce him to an insignificant wisp of Script
in which it doesn’t even matter
whether
the dialogues seen in mute mode
are passable
or terrible
or still bearable
or
at a certain moment might make us cry
because they remind us of our own inability to make endurable
all those lines which have made us
and which
consume us


in which maybe we have some sort of story
about someone who
looks at himself ever more perplexed and cannot get used to the image of his hands
spread out on the table
and who can’t enjoy a thing
because he takes too seriously
the image of his hands spread out on the table
the dizzying onrush of ageing and the strength of the last movements
far from all that he could have been
and the too-serious way in which he considered things
and
generally
his own script and the lines which he doesn’t desire
now


in which maybe it’s about someone who leaves home and strays among
SMSs that
she writes
deleting their traces
and ceaselessly ringing the changes of the tones
so that she can lose the record of herself in scripts with lines which she doesn’t want
which she substitutes for other lines
that are going to be included in the new script
with a fragment of “what her life might have meant”
re-written in a different way
but which does not come true
because
a new fragment of what maybe it’s about
happens


in which maybe it’s about
The Perfect World of chat
in which all of us are asking ourselves what our soul looks like
messenger along the celestial meridians of the sites
the hypnotic attraction of interminably spooling replies
what our soul really looks like
when replaced by colours and dancing emoticons
- the slow hypnotic staccato rhythms of lounge and chillout
against the background of the famous cinema image
in which
our favourite character
approaches
approaches ever nearer
walking slowly
along a street which slides just as slowly in front of him
- our favourite character
wrapped in his aura of solitude
which gives profundity to the next script


one which apparently has no connection with anything
so far
but is only inserted in order to prepare for an ending
totally unpredicted
that every decent script tries to take into account
and to correct the sense of lines
as if we were pretending that we didn’t know
they were all heading for a common end
from which no one escapes
and in which all the lines are the ones we didn’t want
the ones that tortured us and transformed us into
other characters
who in their turn flagellate themselves trying to endure their own scripts
and lines
which they didn’t desire
which torture them and transform them
into other
… characters