Penso Pianura

I breathe and rest on the plain. I was born, grew up, fell ill, learned, loved, and died on the plain. My body treads upon the plain. My plain is my body; the plain exists within my blood. When I look at the horizon, I often think of the plain. I look at a hill and subtract a plain. I embrace landscapes but return to the plain. For me, the plain is the most concise separation between earth and sky. The line is the plain. The void is the plain. I love the plain because, in its bareness, it welcomes me. When I become a place, I feel like the plain. When I feel the plain, it is the absence of things and houses. The plain is my cradle where I toss and turn to feel at home. Not seeing the horizon is like finding myself on the plain. I walk across the plain and feel its dampness in my bones. I long to lose myself in the plain. I wish I had knees like stones on the plain. My head as flat as the horizon of the plain. My back is horizontal because I am more plain. My feet spreading out to become the plain. My mouth is already the plain. I look with pupils as flat as the plain. My face is a line that follows the plain. I run along the banks of my plain. I move, but wherever I go, I encounter the plain. My perception is the plain. My thoughts are the plain. My loves are the plain. When I wander, I smell like the plain. My land is the plain. I want to stand naked on the plain. The fog is my blanket when I stand and look out over the plain. I always feel the need to eat the plain. I think of the plain, I am the plain, I look at the plain, I want the plain. If I am the plain, I am on the plain, I reach out toward the plain, I return to the plain. I think slowly, like the plain.

Photo © Roberto Conte