Giuseppe Rossi's Future

Terrified at the idea of ​​ending up in nothing, you never thought that you came out of nothing. For example, I, Giuseppe Rossi, am this nothing.

Let me explain.

I, Giuseppe Rossi, in fact, have not yet been born, I have not been conceived or designed. My entity, Giuseppe Rossi’s entity, identifies with nothing. I am not here, or rather, I am here only in the sense that I am not here, there is only my not being here. I have no body, no sides, no bottom or top.

The space in which, so to speak, I exist/I am, is dark and peaceful, although I would not call it dark, since I have no eyes to see it. The time I am staying in is a concentration of equal moments.

I am but my future. Precisely because of the fact that in this concentrated moment I am given knowledge of the future, I can tell you about myself. In my restricted soup, I review my future life like a curled-up pamphlet.

My name is Giuseppe, oh well I have already said this.

I’ll be a gas station attendant.

Yes, but only after dad’s hungry tadpole has stuffed itself into mom’s egg. Zac!

I will vibrate, I will choke, shapeless lump that will already be Giuseppe Rossi, a green bean with black eyes like pinheads, nestled in the folds of a uterus and all taken up by the problem of multiplying. At that point I will already have an inside and an outside, I will feel what is happening outside, I will feel the plunger pumping, and hot and wet and viscous.

Then I’ll get out of the hole.

My mother will be very angry when, after having taken good grades at high school, I will start working as a gas station attendant with my cousin Francesco, but I will already have Annamaria in mind and I will want to marry her. I’ll see her every night, I’ll go get her on my scooter, she’ll have the rabbit eyes of redheads, firm thighs, she’ll beat time with fairy feet. She will dance close to me.

But I will marry Giovanna. At the wedding it will rain and the priest will forget about the ring, there will be chicken in galantine and salmon trout, she will be pregnant. I will have met Giovanna at the distributor — after Annamaria has already gone to Milan with the engineer — she will stick to me even if I stink of petrol.

When Pinuccia is born, Mariolino will already be three years old and his little sister will make him sick. Pinuccia will come out red, just like Annamaria, who will have gone mad and the engineer will have locked her up in a nursing home in Milan.

I will arrive late at my mother’s funeral and it will be there that I will realize that Giovanna, after her pregnancies, will have become a bit wasted and put on weight. Good woman, Giovanna, also good in bed, when in the evening, after all the full tanks of gas and the inflated tires, I too want to unleash.

But then she will lose weight because of cancer, she will become skinny and withered. When she dies, she will stare at me as if to tell me “look what happened to me”, and I will think that she is, yes, a very good woman, but she is not Annamaria.

Afterwards Pinuccia will come to wash my shirts, my little redhead who will have settled down with Francesco’s son. The two of them will be at the gas station, Pinuccia will come to wash my shirts on Saturday, and her husband will fuck another woman.

I’ll die of a stroke, God willing.

I will not feel bad, I will only feel sorry for my Pinuccia.

There will be a lot of beautiful light and silence and a large gas station, all scented with petrol. I, on the scooter, will kiss Annamaria.

Here, in my non-being that precedes existence, I have re-leafed with you the book of the future.

I don’t know … Is it that … Well?

It almost makes me want to do nothing with it …

What do you think about it?