would be nice to go back in time, retracing their steps back and remove errors, mistakes chase with a huge rubber and delete stupidity. Who has not committed? Who has not made a fool? Who has not humiliated? The fact is that when we realize that we have made those mistakes now the time has passed and we took a path on which we can not go back - as in that famous poem by Robert Frost: "Two roads diverged in a wood / yellowed and sorry of them do not / Either as a single, long I stood / One of them until I could peering / Where among the bushes done. " Now we have the painful baggage of experience, an unnecessary burden on the one hand allows us to evaluate different choices now, but we can not change the past, we can only imagine what those roads not taken might have been as our lives might have changed if we had chosen differently at a crossroads.
And are those stupid mistakes that we commit to love is like falling in love we darkened the mental faculties, as if stravolgesse reason and left us in a condition of temporary madness, entrusting the government to the heart of our decisions in accordance with, the passion. Even the wisest, even the most conservative, they fall into the traps that tends Cupid, let themselves be duped by quell'amorino flying armed with arrows. One day of September in the 80s, for example, I committed a big mistake going to try what I believed at the time my girlfriend, or rather something more - remember: love alters the mental faculties, then maybe that girl 's I defined "reason of my life" or "the whole universe" or "the sun around which gravitate" and was not a girl, a sweet and beautiful girl, affectionate and sympathetic, but still a girl, whose love was not as intense as mine.
At that time she worked in the family business in Veneto, I studied in Milan, at the University. I took lodgings in a hotel of this provincial town, a town on the sea: the day she worked and I went to the beach - a mistake, I repeat: languished all day and my heart was languishing with me, a withered rose in the glass of Coca Cola in front of me at a table in a bar. I had a thirst that could not pay off: it was the thirst for her, un'arsura that I had tried so hard even when I was away and felt only by phone. More and more was at hand was impossible: there met only in the evening when we went to dinner in the evening and then we growing melancholy sad - have you ever tried to be at sea in September?
The cavernous wind blowing from the coast was seething in us, the darkness that fell away as ever before. We were already divided, although together while holding hands, hugging and even baciandoci. The words clashed with the crash, although trivial simple words fell to the ground as the pianos in the old comedies, come apart, they went to pieces. It was love that was broken, our love as fragile as crystal, we could see the remains sharp on the rocks below us. If the survivor had decided to charge the bottle to the sea his rescue had the wrong target and now his hopes were vain. So the story ended, he died in the wind that blew from the east and carrying the sand in the streets, which tore the branches of oleander and was swinging the curtains on the balcony.
Many times I wondered what would happen if that love in the week of September instead of going in his home town I stayed in Milan, going to movies with friends, walking along the quiet canals, just listening to the records released to Musical messengers, playing ball in the Parco Sempione. Many times I wondered what would happen if the front fork that I had not chosen the wrong path.
Edward Hopper, "Gas", 1940
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