8/18/2023 0 Comments Andrea bocelli i am in heavenIn Haiti death is a travel companion, or better, the guest of honor. Death in Western countries, where I was born, seems not to be contemplated, it is an awkward burden to keep away from the parlor and from the kitchen, death is constantly spying us, and we keep on spying it all the time with an anguish that, often, leaves no sleep. And yet, where I came from, everything was, and usually is, all blurred, in winter like in summer. Even where I came from, theoretically, everything was a glow of festive lights. Finally weak, you cry and you laugh aware of the great strength that generates the fact of being aware of your own smallness. And it is just like finding the key to the problem, the point from where to start once again. Not for the others but for themselves, mercy for their misery. No love, no charity, in Haiti, for what I have been able to perceive, those who land, learn (or understand that, sooner or later, they will learn the liberating force of Mercy). In Haiti every moment is a moveable feast, and wherever you turn, you understand how useless and silly it is not to be happy, even more in these different Caribbean that are close, but are the opposite of any exotic tropical fun fair for melancholic well off people. In Haiti you can see and hear life every day you exchange it in every smile you get on the street, (and, it always ends up that, for exhaustion, though being quite surly, I reply to the smile and I smile). It is the perception of the immense gift I am given every day and that, more or less consciously, I keep on squandering every day. That content is, and never mind if it seems a rhetorical statement, the sound of life that is passing (and there is no better music, and sooner or later I will have to make up my mind and go to shake hands and compliment the composer). Instead, I would go back to Haiti tomorrow.īecause Haiti is like one of those endless wedding celebrations of the past, it is the best place I know today where to feel happy and “content” that is to say pleased with the content. I went to Paris, when I was a young man, as the famous writer, who committed suicide, used to recommend, and I have also been there, in the past months, and apart from many works of art robbed to the world and locked in sumptuous cages, I have had little fun and have not at all enriched my soul. With due respect to Hemingway and his eponymous book.
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