The great pretence
that everyone puts in place
when a story begins
is the main obstacle to let the story really begin.
People are too often not patient enough
to wait until that pretence is gone,
to wait for the mask to fall,
and are too quick to judge that person
as unstable, crazy, indifferent,
when, in reality, they just don't know each other enough.
It happens too often that people think they know
what is going on in someone else's mind,
they think they know how he/she will react,
what he/she will say, do, not do
and expect the worse as they have always done
or believe in the best as they have always done.
And they provoke reactions that they don't want,
in a chain of misbehaviour that doesn't belong neither to one nor to the other
making it even harder to get to know each other to the bone.
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The most difficult time is the time you are waiting for the carriage
to go to the Ball,
the longest hour is the one when you
dress up and are impatient,
your heart beating fast when finally
you reach the Ball with too many expectations
and you realise you forgot to look where you are and with whom,
you didn't look at the roads you have taken to be there,
you ruined the whole travel
you didn't see him and you didn't let him see you,
just because you wanted to rush to the Ball.
And what's now?
When you forgot to look at the person next to you,
when you attached your meanings, your doubts, your fears
to someone without the same meanings, doubts or fears.
What's now?
Nothing but a Princess arrived to the Ball
just to discover that the party was not the one she was invited to,
just to discover that the party is a Masquerade and she cannot recognise a soul.
It's nothing but a surrogate of her own fantasy,
where she is alone and disappointed,
she is ready to let the mask go,
but no-one is there for her to see,
no-one allows her to drop it.
She missed her own dance
and, for the first time,
she saw him from behind the window of the real Ball,
without his mask.
And she cannot go in anymore.
The longest hour has been her fatal error.
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