These days, accomplice 'mood a bit' sad and long summer afternoons by fill, I have given to my personal Proustian Recherche. After having thrown
shit for years over Spoleto and the places where I spent the 'last childhood and preadolescence, I came to the conclusion that, despite all the limitations that this country is my home. Or rather it is the place where, above all else, I feel at home.
E 'is not just a matter of "family". Of course, we are still here, my parents and my brothers and the people I most frequented in the past. But not only that. It 'just the geography of these places that makes me feel at home.
The gentle slopes covered with olive trees, the highest peaks covered with green, the dirt roads that lead nowhere.
Here, especially the roads near my house makes me realize that I'm finally back.
The same roads that between nine and thirteen years I have traveled far and wide, exploring the way down, following all the streams to the tops of the hills, the valleys, abandoned houses, clearings. Proust had
Magdalens, I have the roads. But the 'effect is the same. All it took was to follow in those little dirt roads, to immediately return the child, with the ability to imagine that at the end of that road, who knows what there was.
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