I am trying to write a decent post about my experience in the Globe theatre. Writing is becoming very difficult to me from the last months. It’s like if something obstructs what used to be a fluid, even if chaotic, current. Now I fidget nervously in front of the screen, the words are pulled out like using a forceps.
This restlessness is now, after my London trip, even more acute than before. I feel also a little bit depressed (I use the italics as the real meaning of the word is something much more serious), or rather, under a kind of psychic stendealhian syndrome increased by a deep sense of frustration for being employed in a work I don’t like (but that I have, and nowadays in Italy is something to be absolutely grateful for), in an office where I carry on my shoulders 90% of the daily work (with a retribution 50% lower of the three thinking minds).
It’s hard when you’ve tasted three days of what you would like your life to be to come back to the real world. I know, the Bard himself wrote that if all the year were holidays to sport would be as tedious as to work, but I’m absolutely sure that, should I have a whole year of sport I will never be bored. There are too many books to read, to many plays and films to see, too many museums and galleries to visit.
Nevertheless, even if brief and intense, it would have been much worst if I couldn’t have made that trip. Should I have planned it for this weekend, right now I would need the bard’s insult generator (by the way, it works also as post titles provider). Three days ago Terminal 3 of Fiumicino’s airport has been seriously damaged by a fire, and 50% of Friday flights, including the one I took, have been cancelled.