I do not belong to these places. I walk through the city and I see faces and people, I see streets, traders and colors and I don’t see myself in ’em.
This is not my city.
I cannot see myself in the ocher cracked stones, that lumpy and protruding impose themselves on the road, I cannot see myself in the bright colors of the facades, in their large windows or in their terraces bordered with statues reflecting into the Arno river.
I cannot see myself either in the narrow alleys where 5-floors buildings once bursting with people are now bursting with Airbnb, ice-cream parlors and antique shops.
I cannot see myself in the many colorful and scentend leather shops that attract tourists, I cannot see myself the loggia of a boar which has been rubbed on the nose to many times with the belief that it could bring luck.
I definitely cannot see myself in the royal gardens and their paths with fountains and bushes. I cannot see myself in the elderly ladies full of make-up and petty Pirandellian humor, coming back at night from a play that they didn’t even bother to watch.
But I cannot even see myself in the suburbs where I live, in the local markets on Saturdays where one parades by showing off center scraps, of fashion of sushi, all-you-can-eat food, enjoying crappy movies and vernacular theater.
I cannot see myself in the fake rich, I cannot see myself in the fake poor as well, I cannot see myself in the café chat, in the greedy and dirty Cineplexes, in the foosball table at the neighborhood society.
In the coke sniffed at parties in villas, I cannot see myself in the merry-go-rounds, in designer clothes and accessories, in a middle class hungry for money and trash tv, in the forced cosmopolitanism of undesired diversity.
I cannot belong to the arrogance and presumption of those who think they have a due place, those people shouting and complaining about their own dramas. Complaints on the streets, at the hairdresser’s and then at the doctor’s, during Summer at the sea and during winter in the mountains, but then never talking about their ongoing little love affairs and everything else that really matters.
But I do not belong to artists either, to experts of paintings, to bands, thugs, sluts and drug addicts, or to bodybuilders, to vegans, to communists or fascists, nor to health-freaks, illuminists, racists, nor to goody-goodies, to church people, street people, rappers, punks, Rastafarians nor mobs.
And while my identity is trying to take shape, I keep walking through this tunnel of people, ideals and pressure.