Three molossers

BY BELISARIO RIGHI



The divine comedy - Canto VI - Engraving by Gustave Dorè



Three gray molossers, solemn and lazy, come towards me. They seem meek, but they are still molossers. Attention attention! On Easter day one went mad. It was not among them. He went growling through the village and drooled, from the limp and pendulous cheeks, whitish foam. It was shot down. A twelve-gauge shotgun gutted his mighty chest. Foamy blood from the wound. It seems that the sound of the bells, to those who are not comfortable with the head, produces cerebral spasms. It must be terrible. You think you are calm and relaxed, but in reality you are loaded with anger and repressed hatred, left to macerate in the foam of your brain loops. Always foam! It is the physical form of madness. It escapes from all orifices of the rotten body of hypochondriacal miasmas. If you add the sound of the bells, that's it. Everything is ready for the epilogue, the last act of an existence marked by the latency of madness. Be very careful in shaving. Not to avoid cutting himself, on the contrary, to see how the blood comes out. If it is clear and fluid, it is proof that you are fine, but woe to it if it is mixed with small bubbles of air. When air enters the blood it is lethal. You just have to wait to know. If numbness comes, syncope is lurking, otherwise you are crazy. Few choice: either die or go crazy! That morning of April 13 was Good Friday and the bell ringer was pulling the strings with sadness. Good Friday is not a good day. Bad for its history and bad for the weather. It always rains. As soon as I woke up, woken up by the bell ringer, I went to the bathroom and got rid of the water and wine I had drunk the night before.

The urine was strangely thick, it boiled. A patch of foam formed. I didn't like it. I was too familiar with the harmful effects of those bubbles. Was I going crazy? Maybe not! The cause-effect relationship does not belong to me. Not necessarily every fact must have a triggering cause. It can happen spontaneously, for no reason. The causes are for those who go to look for them. And when you find them there are many, there is never just one. And then the cause-effect relationship goes to be blessed, because each act must correspond to a precise meaning, a single, unique nature. It is the uniqueness that gives the sense of completeness. Let's take war, for example. It arises from hatred, from the desire for conquest, from the need for freedom, from the need for survival. So what is its cause? It can be any reason. Positive, so to speak, there is only the real fact: war. Stop! Someone or something wanted it, and from this will, overwhelm, pain and death arise. So, I wasn't necessarily going insane, nor was I risking a stroke. Never heard that the air in the bladder can cause a circulatory obstruction of the blood, never. But something had to happen. The foam is always a harbinger of sad stories. I didn't think about it any more and went back to bed. I didn't want to get up. I didn't want to get dressed, I didn't want to go out, I didn't want to sleep. I just wanted to want nothing. As if looking from above, I saw myself as a small child in a huge bed, in a room the size of a football field. The room was enclosed by a high net, and behind it there were people, many people who were watching me.

Why was I there, at the mercy of thousands of curious and lanky eyes? I couldn't give myself an explanation, but it didn't bother me. I was comfortable under the covers, and if they looked at me, they might as well look! The sky was leaden, it was raining, but I didn't get wet. The water came down light, light, fine spring rain, without touching me. A small pool was forming around the bed that grew into a uniform carpet of viscous liquid. Here is the foam again! Something had to be wrong, but what? So I got out of bed. I wanted to understand. In the huge room, the chair, where I had put my clothes before going to bed, was more than fifty meters away from the bed. I had to get there, but as I walked, my bare feet did not feel wet on the ground, the rain was falling continuously and I was dry. Everyone kept looking, but their eyes didn't follow my footsteps. They were fixed on the bed. How strange. They seemed to care more about the bed than me. Go understand people! I got dressed, and headed for the door of that singular bedroom. When I opened it, I found myself in front of a wide and long city street. I forwarded it. There were shops, bars and many people walking there, and no one, crossing me, looked at me. They didn't seem to notice me. I was thirsty. Not far away I noticed a fountain leaning against a wall. I came closer. It was one of those that were used in the past, which throw water from a tube bent downwards, with a small hole at the top of the loop, from which, blocking the cinnamon with a finger, a jet of water gushes out. I lowered my head, put my index finger on the end of the cinnamon and quenched my thirst. When I finished drinking I raised my head, and on the back wall, I saw a funeral poster, on which I read my obituary.

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