on a warm spring morning you wake up and decide which is appropriate to review the day and empty the attic, work you're putting off for too long.
The winter is over and you no longer have the excuse of cold and numb in the Attic hands.
's attic is this ... a cool and dark on the top floor of the house, a secluded place suitable for downloading objects used in everyday life but most of what we do not want to rid the room of refuge to breathe and pull the plug, Dostoevksij dear also to the general who wrote: "do my duty in an exemplary way, but just ended, I ran into my attic, I was wearing my dressing gown, and opened my favorite authors, ..." It 's the place where to return children, recalling the ghosts of childhood when my mother asked us to go get something and you had to go maybe with a candle.
Open the door, you look around, laps between the boxes, blow the dust off and open them.
For many years the attic, as our mind, has retained and preserved suitcases, boxes, drawers full of objects, clothes, old magazines and comic books, notebooks and school books crumpled and yellowed, the
old report cards, pictures of military father, the Panini sticker album of the players, dates to junk now lost, forgotten memories and irricordabili.
Owning a loft so it's like owning a large "collection of past" trapped in spider webs.
shots off a beloved object, an old Christmas tree ball, and then you sit on the old velvet chair covered with a white sheet, look, listen, to remember it.
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