It’s been over a month since I’ve been here. Ib is certainly getting tired of me. She’s trying not to show it, God bless her beautiful soul, but there’s only so much moping one human being can take from another. Heck, even I, am tired of me. She has tried to get me to go out and see the city and to my credit, I did pull myself out of bed and oblige her a few times. I even managed to shower on those occasions. Going out did nothing to lift my spirits so Ib tried bringing a couple of her friends to the apartment to see if they would cheer me up. Notable among said friends is Araldo. Araldo is a beautiful man. Araldo has smoking eyes and full lips. Yes, Arado is beautiful. But besides the fact that I love the way his name rolls of my tongue, he does nothing for me. Ibiere seemed a little disappointed at this. She probably thought a good old sexing would do me good. Poor girl. She’s turned into something of a wild one. She took my advice and then some, and is partying her way through italy with a vengeance. And why not? I envy her freedom.
There was once a time when I would have called Turin a beautiful city, but now, I do not know what beauty is (What? Araldo? He’s the exception :-/) Everything is grey through my eyes. Grey like the current weather. Grey like the couch cover. Grey like Araldo’s smoking eyes. Grey like my soul. If i were a super hero, my name would be ‘The One Who Turned Everything Grey’ or ‘The Grey One’.
No I got it, it’d be ‘The Grey Spinster’; ‘The Black Widow’ would be my mother.
I’m still not writing. Obviously. Yes, I have tried. And no, filling in your pages, dear journal, doesn’t count. I’ve done everything the movies and books say i should; sat by a lake and stared, walked by a riverbank and even visited Museo Civico d’Arte Antica in The Palazzo Madama. Still, nothing. If I cannot find inspiration in Italy perhaps I am just a fluke.
A fluke. Rhymes with flute. Brute. Brute. Brute.
I am a fluke. Yes, this is quite possible.