Memories are there for the mind to soak itself, in waters so murky or translucent, that feelings will continue to haunt and create sensations for the body to feel.
Alessio is feeling upon this day the pain of hardness. Though, it is in a meditative state. For he is sitting with his eyes buried in the written words of a newspaper, and his right hand touching a cup of coffee needed for his morning to be wakeful. The newspaper is laid upon the table before him, and his apartment creeks with the groans of oldness, what with the season out-of-doors being Autumn. For it is that the wind is brushing itself, as though to kiss, the exterior of this abode.
He had moved here from Italy in the act to escape from a past ridden with needless complexities. And, for another reason, that is to begin his own life, without the former reason keeping him from pursuing new interests.
From Italy to France, and now in the blooming city of Paris, Alessio foresees various changes, each in swoops and climbs, in what he has noticed from the newspaper. Changes, each with their own motives, of politicians and businessmen alike, waving their hands to enunciate and add effect to their words of boldness. He foresees various changes for his life.
To view the paper with eyes that surface the words, like a fishing rod that now has the bobber floating upon the water, drenches his mind with such foresight, that he relates what is read to his life.
Whether that foresight be from paranoia, or from a simple guess, it is not clear.
Though, to what pain he feels in his hardness can indeed be assumed by his countenance, that reveals sternness. Though, to also assume his age, is to say he is in his mid-thirties, and indeed not in any time to be appropriately feeling stern, like the oldness of a man with so much history.
His hardness, though, does stem from history. And, when his left hand, not upon the coffee, clenches the page of the newspaper to turn it, he finds an article that speaks of a past event.
As his eyes gaze over the words that speak of a business that had fallen a few years ago, his face grows in the sternness. His eyes narrow in their viewing, his jaw tightens, his brow furrows and narrows, too, in the distance between them. A business, much related to the success of longevity of a person, as each of us are knowledgeable, when relating to fear, of the things meant to last.
Alessio tears his gaze away from the paper, to see a portrait upon the wall. It is a painting of a woman, with eyes crystal, not in their color, but of their clearness in perception. He sees the woman’s face, and there is indeed a relation between her and Alessio. “My mother,” begins he, and adds, “You are but a memory deeply locked within me. Do I remember you, and remember you with fondness, even though all you are is a stagnant image that cannot grow any older?” And, he ends his speech with this, after he leans his seated form closer to the portrait, “It is only that my memories have any feeling, while you remain with a stuck feeling of perpetual contentment, written over your lips and across your gaze.”