The awkward presences

The awkward presences are those people, someone says, who should disappear from our life, relics of a past time which prevent us from swiftly walk towards the future. Words already said which, in the story of our life that we are writing, should be muted with a full point and starting a new paragraph. They loom over in the bedroom, are often silent but impossible to ignore, are those parts of our life we refuse to utter and we always pass under silence, unknown and threatening in the fantasy of our lover; they are represented by objects we keep for years under the very same bed we sleep on and make love in with our partner, objects we don't have the courage to get rid of and sometimes we shed tears of regret onto; they are friends whose messages we don't share with anybody, whose visits stay secret; they are those people who are not here any more, or that are even never been here, but who we feel committed to confront with. And finally the most cumbersome of all, the person we have made the criterion for comparison of all other people, or that person we criminally keep calling by her own name for we can't objectively cut her off without renounce ourselves and our own word, and that very little matters if we haven't met her for years and even we don't talk with at the phone, because this person is the foe who cannot be defeated, the perfect opponent for who has already decided to flee.

To start a new paragraph is not enough to conceal such presences of your past from the senses of who's able to read you. The only way you have to remove them is to rip off from the Book of Life those pages which, using your blood as ink, you wrote about them on. And maybe it's for this very reason that so many of you are completely uninteresting people deprived of any flavour.