Give us back the world tomorrow. I beg you.

What am I thinking of? (it is facebook that asks me, he at least).

It is late at night and Venus, very bright, has set for hours. On March 4, two months ago, we closed the doors of the Bernini Theatre in Ariccia.

From that moment the work, the daily commitment, the constant planning of the next opening time, the summer programmes, everything that filled my time with possible certainties to guarantee relative confidence in the future, has been taken away from me.

Temporarily, it seems. Like so many other people, in particular the companions of art. And all this to protect everyone's life.

Two months have passed.

The perception of the passage of time has gradually changed.

At first, in the first days we lived relegated to the house, it was dystopian, still modelled on the rhythms hitherto adopted or suffered, marked by working hours, deadlines, appointments.

From the often senseless race through an unused present to guide a possible, desired future. But above all the inexorable passage of time perceived as a loss.

Then, day by day, the horizon of events began to move, to move away, to get lost in an indefinite future moment, however distorted. And time began to creep, to hesitate, to contract suddenly, and to expand immediately thereafter.

A powerful and tragic tale of Kafka - The Emperor's Message - offers a possible metaphor for what is inexorably happening in my time.

A message that will never reach its destination. And I start to be afraid.

Not of the coronavirus, of which I can at most have an abstract fear (at least for the moment, and thanks be to God).

I could devote myself to feeding the fear of the virus if I were not, every day that passes, inhabited by another fear, much more concrete, that grows, and which I believe - indeed I am sure - is infecting more than the virus.

Let us out soon. Let us out.
Give us back the world tomorrow. I beg you.
Otherwise, when the time comes, going out for me will no longer make sense.