I’m feeling so alone because on behalf of my stupid mind’s will, I’ve let my soul die. My wonted, dear soul. But I can assure that each worrying night I rush in despair through the climbing paths of San Gemini woods, I’m still able to hear my former friend Jesus panting nearby. «Is he at my side?», I wonder sometimes. Or perhaps the gasping I perceive is just the complaining of my lungs, which are struggling in vain not to be overwhelmed by the frantic speed of my raving pace, which is very clever at torturing my breath, my knees, my heart: in brief, my entire physical life.
As a rule, in the end, when at sunrise my weary, weak body –with its joints full of pains– is heading for home by moving two feet made sore by a long walk, I shout at my bones, at my flesh, at my nerves: «Good mo(u)rning, bad Pete!». I then add, while in tears: «And may you rest in peace, my defunct soul. You, at least».
Pietro Pancamo
