Sarà un post estremamente breve. Tutto quel parlare di Goggings mi ha motivato. Mi sono ripromesso di scrivere ogni giorno (dalle 500 alle 1000 parole, se può interessare). Ho una lista quotidiana di cose fare. D’altronde sono obbligato a restare in casa. Tanto vale, mi sono detto, stabilire una routine produttiva da seguire ogni giorno. Molte persone di successo hanno una routine che seguono religiosamente. Ho pensato di provare a farne una tutta per me che comprende i miei interessi, le mie ambizioni e i miei sogni.

Ecco qui:

-Doccia fredda: E con fredda intendo ghiacciata. Questa è un’abitudine relativamente nuova. L’ho introdotta due mesi fa, ma solo recentemente inizio la giornata con una doccia fredda. Aiuta la circolazione, aumenta il buon umore e, di conseguenza, la produttività durante la giornata. Ne faccio due al giorno.

-Lettura: minimo cinquanta pagine al giorno di un romanzo. Altre trenta pagine di un libro di self-improvement. Il mio obiettivo è quello di leggere almeno un libro a settimana. Per il momento, ci sto riuscendo.

-Studiare: … niente da aggiungere. Minimo indispensabile.

-Scrivere: già citato. Solitamente scrivo in inglese, ma ho deciso di fare un’eccezione per questo blog. Per il resto, la mia ambizione futura riguarda la scrittura (…chissà mai cosa vorrei fare da grande.)

-Allenamento: 100 push-ups! 100 addominali! 100 squat! E 10 chilometri di corsa! Ogni giorno! Il grande Saitama di One Punch Man ha creato questa meravigliosa -ma incompleta- scheda che seguo-quasi-ogni giorno. Non è la stessa cosa di andare in palestra ma si fa quello che si può. L’ultima cosa che faccio durante la giornata. Come ho accennato nel post precedente, mi piace allenarmi di notte in modo che nessuno mi veda. Non vado contro la legge del coronavirus: qui è permesso. Mi piace semplicemente allenarmi da solo.

-Pugilato: Dieci minuti di vuoto. Non è abbastanza ma sono alle prime armi e senza un istruttore temo di fare più danni che altro.

Non c’è altro, a parte, gli anime e i manga che occupano dalle due alle tre ore della mia giornata. Il mio obiettivo è quello di essere il più produttivo possibile, ma soprattutto quello di stabilire un ritmo. Per fare ciò, non devo esagerare dato che miro a seguire una scheda del genere per il resto della mia vita.

Detto questo, chi è Tanjiro? Il protagonista di Demon Slayer, uno dei shonen (manga per ragazzi) più di successo di quest’oggi. Non voglio raccontare la trama (che non è male, ma neanche un capolavoro) dato che devo ancora finire di vederlo. Tuttavia, sono rimasto impressionato dall’allenamento cui il giovane Tanjiro deve sottoporsi per diventare un Demon Slayer… Va bene, dai: Tanjiro vive con la sua famiglia in mezzo alla foresta. Un giorno va in paese per vendere il carbone e quando ritorna trova i suoi familiari brutalmente uccisi da un demone, creature che vivono di notte e si cibano degli umani. L’unica sopravvissuta è la sorellina che si è trasformata in un demone. Tanjiro decide di diventare un cacciatore di demoni sottoponendosi a un allenamento durissimo in modo tale da trovare una cura per la sorella, trasformarla di nuovo in umana e vendicare la sua famiglia. Nonostante io non abbia una storia tragica come questa, anche io mi sto sottoponendo a un duro allenamento come quello di Tanjiro con la speranza di riuscire a diventare un guerriero (cringe, eh?).

Per il momento, ho avuto scarsi risultati. Tuttavia, all’incirca due anni fa, la mia prima storia breve venne pubblicata in una rivista letteraria gallese. Ovviamente, non si tratta di una rivista importante e ben conosciuta. Non ho guadagnato nulla.

Però, vedere la mia storia stampata su un giornale con il mio nome sotto mi fa sempre piacere. Non importa se il mio allenamento non avrà frutti. Non mollerò mai. Perché questo che gli anime insegnano, no? Per citare Baki: “Io voglio conoscere la sconfitta… per il solo motivo di combattere”.

Per chi fosse interessato, eccola qui:

Pathetique

This hanged woman is by far the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life for the simple fact that she’s not beautiful. Her plump body, covered in pimples, moves slowly at the mercy of the sea breeze, and the branch of the tree she hangs from creaks slightly under her weight. I wish my classmates were like her. 

Silent. Peaceful. Dead. 

I look at her closely. She is ugly – objectively ugly. It makes sense that she’s ugly. After all, why would she have committed suicide if she was beautiful? 

And I know what ‘suicide’ means because my father’s friend did it. He killed himself, I mean. Why? Because he was depressed, which apparently is another way to say ‘unhappy’. And I’m also sure that besides being ugly and sad, he was smart. I think the dead woman hanging in front of me was smart. I’m smart, too, and I often think about death. 

A red butterfly flies over my shoulder and I’m still, and in complete wonder. I have never seen anything like this on television or at school. The noose is tight around her neck, which has now turned blue and dark, and her eyes are open but they don’t look at me. This makes me feel sad because I would like her to look at me. I look at her brown eyes, but they consider the grass beneath her more interesting than me.  

I was uncertain about this little trip of mine as I should be at school right now, but here, in her company, everything changes. I sit on the ground so she can finally look at me in the eyes. I think she is short-sighted though, because I notice a pair of glasses just underneath her fat, half-white-half-blue body. 

I observe the tall, magnificent tree the she hangs from. The tree number is 9030, and I know that because it’s the tree that was assigned to me when I was born. All the trees in the main park of the city are numbered. When you’re born, they give you a tree with a number and a certificate saying that particular tree is now yours. I think that’s something nice. 

I like having something like a tree growing old with me. It’s strange and special, just like me.

I move her glasses with my foot and lie down with my face underneath her body. Its shadow covers all of my head and part of my shoes.

From here I can see her pink panties.

She wears a white skirt which clashes against the bluish colour of her skin. I take her glasses and wear them and I see everything around me is blurred. I take them off. 

Why can’t people be silent and quiet like her? Why does everyone have to be in such a hurry in this world? The teachers are always hyperactive and looking for new ways to scare us about things that should not scare us at all – like homework or tests – or to show how much better they are compared to young kids.

She’s not snooty, nor angry, nor critical, nor superior. She simply exists and occupies space in the world. A bit like me – immobile, silent, and in peace – at least until I grow up and become miserable, just like everyone else: like my parents and teachers, or the caretakers, cleaners and couples in movies… If all the people in the world were like this corpse then this would be a more pleasant life. 

“Do you want to be my best friend?” I ask, staring at her underwear. She doesn’t reply. I wouldn’t have answered either. I see she is full of bubbles and growths in that area. Maybe she has that thing my classmate has on his face, but instead she has it around her panties, maybe even inside. 

I open my backpack and take out a sandwich that I eat lying down. Once, a boy in my school almost choked to death eating like that and became almost as blue as she is. Since then, I always try to eat lying down. It could happen to me with a little luck, but I have never been that lucky. I’m ten years old.

“I do not have much time,” I say to my new best friend. “I should be at school.”

Every time I have the chance I run away to come here, to this special place. Not because I don’t like reading or studying, but because I cannot bear the other children. I hate them all, from the first to the last. But this is life, according to my father. I just need to accept it and enjoy it like every other kid. With a smile. Never forget to smile. 

“But you’re different, just like me. I do not belong here. We do not belong here,” I tell her calmly. “You have chosen my tree number to commit suicide and I am truly grateful. It makes me feel special.”

‘Special’ is another way to say ‘loved’ or even just ‘considered’. Now I can proudly say that, from the thousands and thousands of trees in this ugly city, this woman chose mine. She had not even looked at the others. I can picture her last living moments, stood at the foot of my tree: she climbs with her depressed flab that wobbles with every reach; she makes a strong knot; she jumps into the void. 

Lucky for her, my tree is in the heart of the park. She needed my tree – number 9030 – the one hidden in full view. 

I would like to stay with her some more, but I’m afraid of being discovered. It wouldn’t be the first time in my life a person ruined a special moment like this – something important, something private, something mine.

I walk away from my best friend. It’s morning and the chances of someone coming here are very high. Maybe some old woman, walking her dog before she dies. Maybe someone else, who wants to join my new friend as a corpse. 

“Should I give you a name?” I ask her. 

Eve is the name that comes to my mind and that’s what I call her. We are our own kind, I think. Somehow.

“My name is Adam,” I tell her, “and yours should be Eve. So we will have something else in common. Do you like it, Eve?”

She is silent, so I assume it’s a dry and loud ‘yes’ to me. 

I suddenly hear small leaves crunching under someone’s tired shuffle. I decide to leave. Today I have been the witness of a great event. It will be my secret. I will never tell anyone about her.

On my way back to school, I can’t decide what I enjoyed the most: having seen a corpse, having glimpsed her underwear or almost being caught in the act of talking to her.