Can You Do Something Well Please? (English)

by Alessia Mancino

Can you do something well please?

He says he is full of doubts, I think there is a lot of chaos

The other day I was thinking that maybe building a puzzle might be helpful

Then I take the piece of ambition and heat it with milk

It melts and comes out of my vocal cords as I scream in a ghost voice

I don’t know if it has ever happened to you to see so many things and you never do them

You portray yourself as full of energy but then you waste it looking at everything from within

And it seems like nothing ever comes out

Of those streams still well dug

Full of arid land, waiting for water and waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting

And they always tell themselves that maybe a good year will come

And then everything will flow, with transparency, with joy, with desire.

It’s the dragging of all those times I didn’t know, I didn’t want, I got lazy

But also justifying everything I choose

But also having too many bodies around

But also always tripping over themselves

Without ever giving a real explanation,

One that makes an emotional rather than logical sense,

One that can be understood with goosebumps

And with tears running backwards, they fall back into your eyes and make you see everything lucid, everything clear, transparent, obvious.

I have often heard that you can change your path in life

I’ve been running a couple at a time for a few years and I was wondering if in the end in the privacy of one’s own room one lives more in a forest, in a lake, in a desert, in any expanse of choices made, things done, eyes looked at

I identify you with what I see you doing and the success you bring around,

Then I don’t know how many tears you cry when the light goes out, the technicians go home and you find yourself in an empty theater.

The other day you laughed and told me that at twenty-five you can’t have an existential crisis.

The crisis of existence.

Your friend a few months ago told me that I was not me.

So I wonder if the crisis is also of my essence. And what it means to move the way I move. In the end, if the body is the only thing we live in, can we ever really get lost in it? And how deep can such a crisis be?