Sunny Paths

There is a deep melancholy within me, as always during the days around the anniversary of Aldo Moro's death. The enchanting landscape around the ”Sentiers du soleil”, as the network of hiking trails in the Haute Provence is called, enhances the gloom. Here, the loneliness of the heart echoes back in the songs of the cicada.

If I had sprained my ankle or sat on a cactus, I'd probably experience encouragement and comfort. But this pain is surrounded by nothing but silence.

 

Aldo, the anniversary of his death, my sadness - it simply doesn't matter. I might just as well be on a pilgrimage for a pharmaceutical company, for Mickey Mouse or Silvio Berlusconi. It would make no difference at all to the perception of my pilgrimage in the outside world.

 

The physical achievement is acknowledged.
The love behind it is not.