In the deep and unfathomable labyrinth of the human psyche, where thought gets lost and the heart trembles with an inexpressible unease, there nestles, like a secret guest, an empty room, devoid of the faintest light or the slightest glimmer, where perpetually resides the sensation of a lack, of an absence that, even if one surrounds oneself with splendid acquisitions and ascends to heights of unheard-of glory, does not cease to echo with a spectral resonance. It is not, alas, a vulgar and banal emptiness, but an ontological thirst so deep and harrowing that it transforms existence itself into an unfinished palace, with barred halls, staircases suspended in nothingness, and windows bricked up like blind eyes. In this abyss of desire, one is led to believe, with a puerile and fatal credulity, that the source of all good lies outside, that the world is a sealed Pandora’s box, and that the key, mockingly stolen by mischievous hands or by the whim of the stars, is irretrievably lost.
And so begins the mournful and languid dance of frustration, a melancholic lament that drives us to turn our eyes to the sky, not with the nobility of an observer, but with the supplication of a beggar for stars, while cursing unjust fate, universal injustice, and the unbearable and tormenting weight of waiting. Yet, what soul, among the crowd, possesses the titanic courage to scrutinize its own inner self and honestly question its actual worth, comparing it with the magnificence of what it ardently desires?
In the vast, immeasurable theater of existence, desire itself, if subjected to the disenchanted, cold, and almost surgical scrutiny of observation stripped of all illusory veils, reveals its true nature, which is not intrinsically noble but often impatient, blind, and of a desolating childishness. We, with a craving bordering on madness, long for a love of unspeakable depth, yet, in the very same instant, our fragile soul proves incapable of tolerating the slightest whisper of silence that solitude brings. With an arrogance that defies reason, we demand prosperity, yet treat gold and its earthly manifestations as a secret enemy, a mysterious entity whose nature is irrevocably closed to us. We crave recognition as a shipwrecked sailor craves the shore, but we are unwilling to endure invisibility—the long, dark, and tormenting night that inevitably precedes the dawn of any mastery worthy of the name. We expect, almost arrogantly and thoughtlessly, miracles to illuminate our path, without ever, in truth, preparing for the heavy burden, the inevitable and tragic weight that every wonder carries. And how, then, could the universe, in an act of supreme and incomprehensible generosity, entrust the crown of power to one who has not yet proven capable of bearing, with due grace and solemnity, the humblest and simplest of hats?
Let us pause, for a fleeting moment, to contemplate the tragic figure of a man who, consumed by a feverish ambition, dreams of commanding a majestic ship, raising the sails to the wind, and sailing the oceans. Yet, his mind, clouded by senseless presumption, has never, even for a moment, learned to decipher the inexorable language of the constellations, to interpret the inscrutable moods of the winds, or to understand the eternal, silent, and relentless flow of the currents. And yet, he demands, for it is a mere reckless claim, not a right, that the vast, indifferent, and majestic sea present him, as if by due gift, with the longed-for vessel. He does not question his own preparation, nor torment himself over his ignorance, but grieves only for the delay, the inexplicable delay, of the ship’s arrival. Yet, if that imposing vessel arrived, it would not be his salvation, nor the beacon that would guide him to safe shores, but his certain ruin, the tragic instrument of his failure. It would be like placing a blazing torch in the trembling hands of a child: instead of piercing the veil of darkness and illuminating the path, it would only bring destruction, an inexorable and ruinous catastrophe.
There are, therefore, only two paths before our restless and eager spirit: either to raise our effort, with titanic and ceaseless labor, until it matches the vastness of our desire, or, conversely, to reduce the scope of our ambitions until they correspond to the measure of our current effort.
The world, far from being a cruel, ruthless, or unjust entity, stands, on the contrary, as a judge of impeccable, inexorable coherence. To reap the golden fruits that life promises us, it is imperative, above all else, to transform ourselves into the person who possesses the intrinsic capacity to grasp them. There are no shortcuts that withstand the test of time, nor undeserved rewards that do not inevitably turn into an unbearable weight, a cross too heavy to bear. Life, in this sense, acts as an excellent, silent, and immutable arbiter: it does not grant us what we ask with our lips, but what, through the substance of our being, we are capable of sustaining. This truth, on one hand, illuminates adverse events with a new and unexpected light, for we are never entrusted with challenges that our spirit cannot, ultimately, face and overcome; on the other hand, it reveals an uncomfortable, bitter truth: either one increases, with indomitable perseverance, one’s effort, or one reduces the presumption of one’s expectations. If I crave a love of unspeakable depth, I must first become a soul capable of such depth. If I long for a creative and free profession, it is my duty to acquire the iron discipline that such freedom demands and binds. If I yearn for recognition, I must find within myself the courage to expose myself, to make myself vulnerable, to stand before the judgment of others. Otherwise, what I desire is not a noble dream that honors the human spirit, but a vain, childish, and insubstantial whim.
The vast majority of what our soul perceives as an unbearable, tragic lack is, in truth, only a deep and unresolved disharmony, a desperate asynchrony between the impetuous fury of our desire and the current, imperfect state of our being. To put it in a clearer metaphor, it is like the distant echo of a sweet and celestial music, and the body, in absurd immobility, has yet to learn the sublime art of dancing to that rhythm. Life, far from intending to punish us by delaying its most precious gifts in a gesture of malicious cruelty, invites us, with infinite patience, to prepare ourselves properly, to become worthy of what we long for. It is, indeed, like the humble and fertile earth, which, while yearning for the coveted seed, must first be tilled, patiently freed from the vile intrusion of weeds, and watered with care that is anything but rude: not out of malice, but from a profound, almost sacred, love for the bloom that will come.
Consider, in a moment of reflection, one who feverishly craves a romantic relationship, yet remains, inevitably, a slave to their inner wounds, to those invisible scars that time has not yet healed. How could a soul so tormented give love to another, if it has not yet learned the divine art of receiving it for itself? And how could it welcome and contain the fragile, complex world of another person if it has not yet learned to contain itself in the stormiest moments, when passion and pain threaten to overwhelm everything? And likewise, consider one who desires a creative profession, a life of beauty and expression, but who lives in an existence governed by irregular schedules, inconsistent habits, and a blurred, confused vision of life. Is it not evident, even to a clouded mind, that such a delicate dream, if manifested in such disorder, would dissolve without leaving a trace, like fine, insubstantial sand slipping inexorably through the fingers?
Life, in this sense, is less a senseless game of fate and fortune than an invisible and strict school, where every desire the heart utters is an exam, and every absence, every void we perceive, is a patient, silent teacher guiding us toward deeper wisdom. Too many, in an abyssal myopia of the spirit, confuse “not having yet” with a definitive and irrevocable failure; but not everything that is delayed is irretrievably lost, nor destined to vanish into nothingness. Many things, on the contrary, do not reach us precisely because the universe loves us too much to let them be ruined, to allow them to be corrupted in our still-unprepared hands. Life, in a gesture of supreme protection, shields us even from what we most ardently and desperately desire.
Love that arrives too early can, in a heartbeat, transform into a prison of dependency. A career that manifests before true inner maturity can reveal itself as a golden and glittering prison, whose bars are made of fame and wealth but leave no visible escape. Success not yet assimilated at the core of our being generates a fragile identity, built on sandy foundations, destined inevitably to collapse at the first gust of wind. Thus, in the deep and unfathomable arc of this waiting, this suspended time between yearning and fulfillment, a question arises spontaneously and fruitfully, far richer than a vain lament: “How can I, with patient and meticulous dedication, prepare the ground, till my soul, to receive what my heart, with every fiber of its being, ardently desires?”
For the truth is that one cannot, in fact, admit the new into the temple of one’s existence without first creating a space worthy of it.
Every true transformation, every authentic step toward evolution, requires a symbolic death, simultaneously painful and sublime: the death of old habits, those invisible chains that imprison the spirit; the death of obsolete thoughts, like dry leaves on a tree preparing to bloom again; the death of those versions of ourselves that, though they accompanied us in the past, no longer belong to us. To embrace a new phase of life, one must, with an act of supreme courage, die to the previous one. And this death, though often solitary, silent, and painful, is irrevocably and inevitably necessary: to cleanse one’s emotional space, as one would a dusty room; to organize one’s mental dwelling, as one would a disordered library; to learn to manage time, speech, promises, every single fragment of one’s existence. All this constitutes the invisible architecture of destiny. And so, in the time of absence, in this valley of emptiness that stretches before us, we have a choice that defines our spirit: to lament the void that surrounds us, or to cultivate, with care and patience, the vessel that, one day, will be filled with all that we have awaited.
The true art of living, I would venture to say, does not consist in violently forcing the doors of destiny, but in becoming worthy of the key that, at the right moment, will open them. It means preparing oneself with the discipline of a monk and the determination of a warrior. Choosing to grow, like a tree reaching toward the sky. Letting go of what we no longer are, to welcome with an open heart what we might become. And in all this, placing one’s trust not in a blind and capricious fate, but in a subtle and profound order that rewards coherence between our innermost being and that which, through our invocation, we call to us.
Perhaps what we lack today is not far at all. Perhaps it watches us, hidden behind the veil of time, waiting not for the right moment to arrive, but for us to become the right moment.
And when this occurs, it will no longer seem a miracle descended from the heavens, but something that, deep and ancient within our being, had always been there, waiting to be fully revealed.
This article was originally written in Italian. If you want to read the original: Mancanza e attesa, una melodia.