We're rebuilding through books. Some don't read at all, some read more than ever. We make trees out of books, we make bookshelves, we dress in everything we read, we fill our bed with books, we cover our inner solitude, and we also enjoy our heart. We don't know exactly why we're reading, but we're reading. We're going after the new sightings, hungry. Let's not lose, let's not miss the title. We're hungry, but what kind of hunger is this?


It's not just a hunger to read, it can't be, otherwise, we'd scour the antique shelves and empty them, take the long-exiled books, and ensure their existence inside us. I'd borrow from my grandparents' and parents' libraries. No, we’re hungry for something else. It's a crazy desire for change, it's an avidity of the new. It's a search for something we don't know how to put our finger on, it's a desire to recompose a huge joy from small bits of thousands of quotes and fragments that we emphasize.


Some books speak to us more than others. And then we declare them friends, and we don't put them on any shelf. We choose one, the heart-shelf, the one that only best friends have access to. Those reading recommendations don't happen to anyone. Expect. New appearances are repeated on special occasions or on an urge to buy. The courier has become a messenger of such happiness.


We're filling in the silence. We fill the silence with everything we prefer not to say, and if we could, we would immerse our face in the pages of a book, we would make one with the writing, one with the paper, one with the story. And that's what we're doing. Our coffee accompanies reading. We've formed tabs that we pride ourselves on and love. We've shaped a corner of life that fits the reality we want. We sculpt in daily life and we like it. We change the colours where the cloud shade isn't blue enough. And then we look at the sky.


I'm not scolding anyone. I'm doing the same thing. Coffee doesn't even look perfect to me if it doesn't have a dense, flavourful, fluffy, delicious climax. And I don't drink it if it's not hot enough to burn my palate, accompanied by a bar of chocolate, always refrigerated.


We need bigger libraries; we dream about them with our eyes open. Our lives are beginning to have the views of the seas and of the mountains at the same time. We hunt with the eyes of the mind the appearance of the first rainbows. We wonder, isolated, excluded from the routine of great trade if we will reach them. We embrace every flower and every bud seems like a miracle to us. Forced to look much closer around us, we discover with astonishment that we are surrounded by miracles. We wouldn't even know, perhaps, that the core of a fulfilled life lies in this very thing: in seeing the sky, in watching the passage of the sun from one building to another, in asking you to catch the flower you just replanted, in turning on a page by page from the book that came to you directly from the shelf of the virtual book-store.


What a joy. Even when we're forced to leave everything that gets to us for another two or three days at the door to lose what's been keeping us in our homes for over two months. We're rediscovering our city. We covet him, we miss him. In our imagination the past changes, a walk on the park…at the morning clock becomes a destination in itself, a possible, palpable one, one that does not need the plane or the train, one that we can fulfil.


We make promises. When we get out of isolation, we'll change the world. We'll hike, we'll move more, we'll hug the trees, we'll look at the sky more often, and we'll count the clouds. We'll be truly grateful for everything we've missed now. We'll certainly forget everything we promised.