Dear Samuele,

I would like to tell you about myself in this letter.
Writing to you helps me tell my story better, like when I used to send you those long messages hoping you might reply. You know, I still have your number. I have never deleted it because it is the only presence, together with the memory of you, that I can always carry with me.

In these days I have meditated a lot. I have thought, laughed, cried, and taken some time for myself. I wanted to write you this letter because if there were someone I truly wished to speak to and embrace, it would be you. I imagine your figure here beside me, and just the thought of it brings tears to my eyes.

I would like to tell you that I am—well, that I am doing well—but I realize that society forces me to wear a mask that I carry with me wherever I go. Or perhaps I truly am the strong girl people think I am, the one they often judge while looking at her with a distant gaze from above.

I do recognize that I find it difficult to open up to people I have known only for a short time, but as you know, I can open up easily with people I trust.

Do you remember that dinner at the inn?
You were a little hesitant at first, but then we convinced you. We were happy—almost childish—in front of that carefree youth. I remember the gentle teasing about the cast on my arm, and how I had to sit at the head of the table so I wouldn’t take up too much space along the long table.

I was weak and I felt ashamed. Even now I am not fully aware of this weakness—a weakness that perhaps is a gift or a virtue, and that I want to tell people about through photography.

How conflicting it is to fight against oneself?
How difficult it is for a human being to manage anger and fragility? Anger takes away every possibility of breathing, it drowns you, and just when you struggle to stay afloat, another feeling arrives—the one that ignites despair and tears: weakness. Weakness and strength can be such contrasting words, and yet when placed next to my own person they create a perfect union.

I used to go to the sea from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m., because my mother closed her shop around 12:45. At 3:30 I would run into the water for the last swim. I always did it alone while my parents started packing away the towels, toys, and umbrella.

During that short half hour of solitude I played with the sea. I tried to calm the waves by spinning around myself. In that moment I felt strong, I felt powerful. I could control such an infinite space.

I have always been—and still am—a responsible daughter. As you know, I have always stood beside my parents, helping them and trying to be the perfect daughter. When you feel alone, you often feel the need to make the people around you happy, and you end up carrying a great weight of responsibility. I used to release that responsibility into the sea, perhaps. I realize it only now, as I write to you. The responsibility that weighs on me pushed me to anticipate adult problems too early, to build a small wall that allowed me to handle their difficulties without being overwhelmed by their sadness.

I speak this way now, Samu, because I am reading The Little Prince. I had never read it before, and through it I understood how important it is to protect the child within oneself.

Adults do not listen to the needs of children when they are young. Both the author and I understood this only by expressing ourselves and transforming it into something else: he through the childlike spirit embodied in the Little Prince, and I through photography.

There is a passage in particular that tells about the meeting between the Little Prince and the fox. And there, the answer to everything emerges in a single word: to tame. It means creating bonds and a sense of responsibility understood as taking care of someone or something. I often tend to experience other people’s problems too personally, which causes me torment. This desire to withdraw therefore comes from the need to create a refuge where I can feel at peace, even if only for a brief moment.

Tonight the stars cannot be seen, but there is a beautiful moon.

See you soon,
Irene