Nobody Knows anything – [et al.] – by Cristiana Ziraldo – Found in translation Course
Nobody Knows anything – [et al.] – by Cristiana Ziraldo – Found in translation Course 2017.
A wise and well-respected writer once said, “Nobody knows anything.” Listen to him.
What a revelation, what an epiphany indeed.
She was confronted with these very words and immediately drawn to them. How was it possible that at her age she came across these words and felt reassured by them? They sounded like a friend’s soothing voice, they felt like a hand stretched out to prevent her from drowning in the self-inflicted piercing feeling of being incapable of anything, of being unworthy?
Haven’t you ever felt tired of feeling useless? Powerless? Haven’t you ever wished to be invisible? Yes, invisible, so that life would not pierce you with its fiery spears? You would stop feeling crucified. Invisible to the point of denying your very existence. No longer anyone’s scapegoat. No longer a victim or a victimizer. No more pain.
Her whole life she felt that her role in the so-called gift of existence was to bear the brunt of it. The cause of this feeling is a mystery.
She claimed she had been through more downs than ups in her life, but she never ever unlocked herself, she never revealed her inner life.
She was married, she had two children, after too many miscarriages to count. She was happily married and her husband loved her dearly, regardless of her dark moments, deep depressing gorges fed by her unspoken past.
She never spoke a single word about herself that was constructive, yet she was a source of positive energy for her friends and her family, not to mention her kids, who loved her deeply. They constantly said their mother was there to bring out the best in them, a source of continuous inspiration. She constantly backed them, spurred them into doing their best. They never heard the belittling and scathing negative voice their mum reserved for herself.
She overcame many challenges in her life, yet she never tasted victory. Many people looked up to her, they saw a successful middle-aged woman, endowed with great sensitivity and sensibility, but she seemed incapable of seeing herself through their eyes. Her sense of her existence was that of a whiteboard wiped clean. A tabula rasa. There was a small powerful monster in her mind, an incessant voice drilling into her: You do not know anything. You’re just an insignificant nobody.
But now she read “Nobody knows anything” and for the first time she felt liberated. That monstrous voice knew nothing then, so for the first time she got to know something.
Why I write
I write because…
I am the only one who can give myself a voice.
I feel relieved then I see words laden with either pain or joy written on a page: I can grasp their scope, control their impact, harness their energy.
When I write I feel rooted and no malicious typhoon can blow me away. Writing is my buoy
When I think and feel I think and feel in images. They are like a rollercoaster ride and I need to stop them moving by jotting them down.
I write to give meaning to what happens to me, to who I am.
I write to nail down the things that strike me in a novel, film, exhibition, concert, play.
I write to let the unconscious meet the conscious, to let the difficult become approachable, the invisible visible, the inaudible audible, the unmentionable mentionable.
I write to be entitled to exist.
Tottering like the structure of a makeshift shed
next to the railway tracks
Relentlessly and hopelessly giving in
I fight back dark thoughts hovering, haunting my mind
Fear aims at me: she the dart, me the target
Fear overshadows my dance with life
I look at you
A magical cocktail dripping enchanting relief into your gaunt suffering body
You look so fragile
so powerless to the snarls of inflicting pain
You are disease’s prey
I wish I could
take it all away from you
impossibility plunges me into dark despair
Fear nibbles hope away
Fear grinds energy into dust
I won’t stop hoping
for you and for me.
Your eyes meet mine
Your eyes meet mine
Piercing pain doomed to pervade
of my body
If only I could free you from the plague
That engulfs your days.
Life is ruthless
our heavens turn into hells
with no reason
Luck is blind
It prizes the unworthy
scoffs the good
welcomes the soulless.
Your eyes meet mine
I drown in your suffering
Stripped of hope
a future vision with you
You are not my sister
more than a sister to me
Tool of self-expression
powered by relentless emotions, swirling thoughts
empowering life itself
You operate under my control, beyond it, apart from it
Ink juts out of you
Blots of blackness pour onto a white sheet
Scribbled pieces of paper
Are enriched by you
You give life to eternal memories
You become the mirror of past experience
A Cherished present
A Longed for future
You are the tool of
Your very existence