The blind spot is watching couples sip their aperitivo at sunset, imagining their after‑dinner—or before, or even during (!). Like that time I was walking down from Capo Bianco, roomless (and manless), and I saw a woman returning home under a gorgeous pergola. Waiting for her was him, saying: “ciao amo’!” And she, “ciao tesoro…” And the worst part—so to speak—they must have been sixty, and they kissed (under that beautiful pergola).
The blind spot is also couples who, before boarding or disembarking, bombard each other with selfies. And when you arrive and there’s no one waiting for you at the dock, the track, the gate, the sidewalk—once you felt glamorous, now you feel miserable.
It’s listening to Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2 on your way home late at night (and the cat—who knows where he is, and who he’s found, him…).
The blind spot is memories that never fade, always alive, always ready to resurface in the form of tastes or smells:
The blind spot is wet asphalt, running through winter nights after work.
The blind spot is having to carry yourself, always, and always having to take care of yourself: delays, cancellations, losses, misplacements… losses. There’s a noun that overflows. Ah, everything is lost.
