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WANT TO BE HEARD

A post created by the reflection of the boys on as we grow and the difficulties of growing up.

Sometimes you think nobody can understand you, even adults. Think of the fact that their advice always appear sloppy or superficial and their answers vague.
They say they have experienced all that we are living and, therefore, may understand better than anyone else.
But it is not and never will be because times have changed, people and the way we think. So there
be contained in a bubble where they only get friends, our peers, people our age that we expect more. We believe that each of they can understand, accept us for who we are, without comment, to judge or give unsolicited advice.
Because what we really want is to be heard. We want our ideas are no less than those of adults. We want there is no difference between us and them because we feel great already.
When it comes to important issues, the adults hide behind the fact that they do not want to burden them with heavy responsibilities. But we want the
these responsibilities. Do not take us up to date and do not participate just shows a lack of confidence in us. A trust that we require a loud voice not only to manage themselves but also to decide for themselves, make our choices and make mistakes, why not?
Adults would do anything to prevent us from making mistakes, but a direct impact, a mistake, probably will make us learn a lot more ...
Banging your head against reality, abruptly, it is often much more useful than anything else, it helps to Adults react ...
notice of our sudden silence or a tear that line her face. But even when they ask us why we respond with the usual bugliarda word: NOTHING!
Sometimes because we do not want to talk, sometimes because we do not have the courage, or simply because we fear that our every word on him like water slides.

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For you, that you see on the screen.

No, you do not scrutinize their faces

or fixed with surprised eyes

to look for traces

of a pain performed.

The hypocritical surprise

there takes to fix

almonds dry

or breathing mask

and forced

dusty bandages.

No, not a movie,

is not a game or a reality

plaything of bored minds.

One is the pain of the world

in the world is one.

"I put my heart

close to your heart "

slim hope of relief

only possible now.

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THE WORLD OF PAPER

For the teenager Mattia is the world of photos and drawings, a virtual world where he took refuge to get away from his peers and the monotony of reality. Even though it comes time for him to make a choice: continue to build dreams of paper or to really live?

He saw the world through a camera. That world was that both the narrow world in which that is not recognized, that world did not understand the reality that the oppressed and suffocated, with whom he tried to escape. Matt watched life pass before our eyes and knew that the only way to escape was to feel that click of the shutter. Captured images, moments. He tried to find something right in that world, and often wondered if those pictures had really captured the life he wanted. Mattia
not discard anything. Apparently insignificant details, look no interest from others, were essential for him. The leaves in the driveway, the bench of the wetland park, the trees bare. So put together the pieces of his life, composing the mosaic of his perfection.

Somehow she felt a bit 'special because he knew he was different.

On Saturday night Matt would not go to the movies. He would have preferred to stay on the beach, with a his camera to portray the sea, the rocks, sand, maybe going as a crazy feeling but still alive.
Matthew had no friends to talk of his plans. Sometimes picking up the phone in hopes of asking his mates along with him in his lucid madness. Then press the red and replace the handset. Matthew was alone. He and his world, he and his puzzle, he and his transgression.

At school he took a piece of paper and a pencil. When it came into contact with the paper, was happy. Withdrew his companions or imagined stories. In those moments he had the power to decide for someone else. Mattia
believed and did not do it for others but for himself. At the sound of the bell was thrown into reality, and almost ashamed, took that design and tearing. Returning home he watched the sky and thought it would have been nice to have that moment in his camera to add more parts to its story. Mattia
dreamed, imagined that he would fire photography, drumming his fingers on the lips or nibbling the cap of the pen.

Then Matt grew up. He became great, and knew that he lived in that world is becoming smaller and smaller.
On a morning like any other, he sat in that park, on the bench that he had photographed years earlier between the rain and wind that ruffled his hair, he began to think.
The place was the same but maybe something about him was different.
That day he had with him the photo of the bench. He took from his pocket of his sweatshirt and began to look at it. Everything was exactly the same, the years had changed him, but not there.
was just like he wanted: the contrast between that green and faded gray asphalt driveway, the rain blurs the view and the clouds that shut up the sky over him.

I remember, I remember it well.

While watching that photograph the drops were falling down from the leaves of the trees on his head and faded ink on paper. The color ran slow on his hands. It was then that the green mingled with the gray, but Matt did not move. It was the
His favorite photograph, that which was his undoing, one that encompassed his whole world. Yet even when gray and green mingled, Matt remained impassive. He watched her, watched for the last time. Then he dropped it.
He stood in the rain and retraced his steps to that place leaving the core of its existence.
Matt looked up. Strange clouds over him. The faint rays of sun that crossed the rose, so as to make them striped. That stark contrast
seemed nice. Nice to see. Those two colors were different, yet blend perfectly. Matt knew it would not be so difficult for and that he could learn from the clouds. He was the pink streak. And the gray clouds, the world.

Giella