It is to scratch. To scratch a top. To scratch his life.

It was a challenge: to chip the top of the other kids with the iron point of his own, so as to make it unusable. It was a way to establish itself, to say who it was. It was a cry, the cry of that child grew up in the street to tell the world: “I exist”.
Poor, dressed in rags, cunning. Is alive. A precarious life, but faced with a great desire to “chipping” the difficulties of every day. A desperate determination to be what it is: people, men and women with ideals, values, dreams and feelings.
Inside me is the taste of the dust of the road. Remains the strong will to succeed, the care felt to get where I arrived, the love of life in all its aspects. Even today I turn the top. Even today I want to scratch this life to give it meaning and direction.






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