The way I do what I do

I know, everyone says it. Everyone claims to be different, super creative, offering everything that no one else ever could. And you know what? It's true. Because a professional is, first and foremost, a human being who has been shaped by life in a certain environment, who has read certain books, embarked on specific journeys, and loved certain people. A unique and unrepeatable combination. In the last 15 years, this uniqueness is increasingly put to the test, and if you scroll through LinkedIn, you'll see identical faces with the same degrees from the same universities, all recommending, drinking, eating, and reading the same things. I don't know what happened, but I find it quite challenging to fit into this assembly line. Not just professionally, but on a human level.

I was born and raised in a small, modest, and depressed provincial town where, among all the records, they opened the region's first SERT in the 90s. I had to literally invent a future, a path, something that wasn't already written and set in stone. I formed myself through fierce rebellions, both in school and academia, which taught me the weight of having values and the ability to face the consequences head-on. I am the sum of oversized books that enlarged my soul and brain, with the most precious gift of all: always feeling ignorant and striving not to be anymore.

I listened to eccentric songs from junkies, turning those myths into shredded paper to avoid unhealthy identification. I despise iconography and post-mortem hagiography. At 15, I was Ivan Karamazov facing the Devil; at 13, I was Prince Myshkin and Courtney Love. I read Cioè and experienced an unseen Bologna with Pier Vittorio Tondelli, Andrea Pazienza, and Frigidaire. I understood Stefano Tamburini's obsession with accelerating conflict in the communication world. I was tired of war alongside Teresa Batista, kicked balls with Soriano's anti-heroes, singing a tango by Carlos Gardel. I traveled on a spring Moscow on a broom with Margherita running to her Maestro, fell madly in love with Andrej Bolkonsky, experienced the cynical cold of Mitteleuropa with Franz Tunda, and tried not to succumb with Wertheimer.

I woke up as a cockroach like Gregor Samsa and went to Vienna with Franz Kafka, spending a handful of hours with Milena. I listened to the sweetness of my mother singing Baglioni and Celentano while ironing, and now, without singing "Una carezza in un pugno," I can't do anything at home. I rebelled against the dominance of pop songs and was grunge when no one else remained.

I perpetually thought of myself: I'm out of time. But then, I realized I'm not out of time. I have my own rhythm. And it's asynchronous.

And now tell me: how can a "professional" be interchangeable?