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Rating: A black and white that cuts your eyes to color the sky of Berlin. For one day a week, the sky, yes it, is a deep blue, for the other six it is gray and when it is gray, everything else becomes gray. A black and white not only aesthetic but also descriptive. Black and white for thoughts, for the transcendent, colors for the body, for life, for the immanent.
<< When the child was a child, he had no opinion on anything, had no habits, often sat cross-legged...>>
It is the noise of thoughts that prevents sleep, it is what haunts everyone everywhere. Everywhere, from the bed to the metro. I lift my eyes and meet eyes. No spark, thinking of something else, perhaps antelopes and jaguars. He realized it was a pointless trip. Now he tightens the strap of his bag. He clings to it like to life... She looks out the window. She looks at the tuff-colored buildings that precede the station with a bewildered air. They've been there for two centuries, but it seems she sees them for the first time. She cleans the staircases of the buildings, exhausts herself all day for peanuts. She thinks about what to cook for this evening. She lacks nothing... The boy skipped school. He made his decision alone and carries it out alone. He goes up Vomero to watch the world hoping the school doesn't call home. He looks at me and turns around. He looks at me again and turns back. I don't remember where but Dostoevsky wrote that the more unhappy we are, the more we feel the unhappiness of others... that the feeling doesn't shatter, it concentrates. I confirm: this carriage is about to explode.
<< Time will heal everything. But what happens if time itself is a disease? >>
Two angels, angels from before Berlin even began to exist, record the pain, the sensations of the world, in their notebooks. They listen to human thoughts, sense what man feels, note it down but cannot feel it. They exchange the present, the past, and the future of human sensations. They are the historical memory of a Berlin turning towards the end of the Cold War, a Berlin still without Postdamer Platz, a Berlin that still deludes us that a good world and a bad one exist... they carry on dragging behind the curiosity of knowing what it means to have cold feet, but nothing is immutable. Love will render the angel human, love will color him, love will make him smile, love of her/for her from eternity. Love will bring him into the world, love will consume him.
<< Ah wanna tell ya 'bout a girl/ You kno', she lives in Apt. 29/ Why... that's the one right up top a mine/ Ah start to cry, Ah start to cry... >>
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