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To my friend Roberto and his son Matteo...
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Matteo is fifteen years old and as beautiful as the sun.
But he never leaves his room. He no longer goes to school, he no longer plays football...
He has a diary where he writes imaginary things, what the world tells him he must be and he is not.
A whole series of invented days, imagine...
Monday breakfast with Alice, Wednesday cinema with friends. It's nice to be normal. Only then it's written next to it: “why keep living?”.
I wonder if he remembers when he couldn't recite the multiplication table, when everyone was playing elsewhere and he ran drawing circles like smiles...
That time at school when he pulled out his hair...
Maybe not, maybe he doesn't remember. Or maybe he does, but it's just a feeling. Does anyone know what anger is? No, no one knows anything, not even the psychiatrist.
Actually, no, the psychiatrist knows, but just a little bit.
And anyway, it's nice to stay at home, smoke when no one is around, eat junk food, watch horror films, or ones with weird guys like him...
But his music is even better. And sometimes his dad listens with him. It's funny because he does it with the lyrics in hand, the rappers go too fast.
They made a deal: for every five rap songs, one classic from the sixties. And, damn, it works great...
Yesterday, for instance, they listened to Rock'n'roll by the Velvet Underground, a funny thing to think about, since "Rock'n'roll" tells Matteo's exact story.
Trallallà...
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