The sea on a cold November day

Dawn over the sea of ​​Ognina.
The night is setting.
A new day closetted between those four walls. The usual monotony of every single day of my life.
The waves beating on the coast.
I drive down to the seafront looking out, wearing a sweater, only wanting the sun on my face, the warmth of Sicily, and a pistachio orange.
Being in the car seeing outside without looking, focusing only on the problems of the day.
And then that moment of darkness where there is only the sea. The quiet and the waves.
The white winter foam and the infinite blue of the now distant summer.
The port of Ognina, a postcard even in winter, from my Catania, as beautiful as it is chaotic, ancient and unknown.

In each narrow street, an angled door leads to a piece of history.
Noise on the ancient steps at 2 in the morning in University Square, in the silence of a Wednesday evening when no one is there.
In which there is only the suffused noise of uncontrolled voices in the history of those black lava stones.
My piazza Teatro Massimo, with its unique ancient beauty and its unique scent.
My coast, where the sea is as restless as my love for this city.
Catania leaves something inside of you.
You never get rid of the feeling of missing those places, those buildings, that stone, that sea.
That rough sea of ​​November.
That wonderful sea that remains in your soul.