I Speak Only What I Know

I don't take off my mask outdoors—I keep it on even when I'm out on the street—and I notice other people wearing different ones, colorful ones, other kinds, maybe bought somewhere else or at the pharmacy. It's an annoying accessory, not being able to see someone's mouth; it hides my beard, but women can't show their lipstick. It hurts my ears and causes scabs. If I happen to forget it, I have to pay a fine, especially on the train. When they announce you shouldn't touch your face, but that's my business—it's instinctive for me to touch my face. A hassle changing it every day. But when the time comes to take it off for good, that will be a joy for everyone. I speak only what I know. It's not made up; it's real. Sometimes I miss the way things were, the people who were there before and helped us put on the show, in the end. It's not easy for me to help people grow, to bring about change just by being together. Not knowing when we'll see each other in the community, not meeting up—that feels far away to me. And then in each little house we have to figure out what to do, what activity to do in the afternoon. It's not just me who feels the absence of everyone, of people who aren't there, not being able to see each other on public transport and the metro because they're in other parts of Rome. One way to stay close is to ask for friendship on Facebook, or call each other to meet up and go on a trip. I've actually been to a church place, even abroad. But there's the problem of food, because I don't eat things I don't know.