Angels ― all in navy blue ―row with joy. A boy undresses as if nothing in front of the men who talk in the park under the shade of the myrtle trees. Sailboats in the marina, children in schoolyards, gardens and play areas dazzling with their colors. Paradise is like this. But who inhabits it, who dares to walk in its narrow paths, who thinks he guesses silhouettes in the haze which rises from the surface of the lake? The question, deceptively long as it divides into smaller stories, inside the galleries of an extensive cavern. Paradise, an indefinite question, Milton told Lucifer that hell was where he was. Paradise can be here or there, even,
perhaps, a little closer. But who inhabits it, who dares to fill out the form, pay the policy, leave everything, close the door, say goodbye, and cross the threshold? Some say that event is never given, that there is no propitious occasion for such a decision. To inhabit paradise encloses long and melancholy consequences, attitudes not always positive or encouraging. Dante returned to earth, but without Beatrice, and just at that moment the Comedy ends, the New Life is a strange allegory, since it was written before going to paradise. It leads me
to think, which was not clear when I started writing this, they may be survivors, that what we call reality, everyday life endures as a long wake, a long morning, a meadow that seems to have no end where veterans, experienced men and women live, angels ―without any doubt― that for very different reasons, were expelled out of paradise, but no one dares confess it.
There are no steps or instructions, no verses or pictures opening their doors, no policies or willful acts that lead us to into paradise. Only accidents, everyday life, day after day which suddenly breaks or derails its own time and space where there may or may not be gardens, birds, caves, boys of extraordinary beauty who undress in the most unexpected places.