A contemporary look for the Symposium — Revising Plato’s conception of couple

I could tell a thousand stories about us, I could animate novels, thrillers, stories, researches, science fiction adventures and theater scripts. Psychology, sociology, toxicology, numerology and other articles.

Everything is already prepared as an immense mosaic in which each tile is at the same time incipit, prologue, dialogue, monologue.

I could open a door to close the others nine hundred ninety-nine. I could follow a color, a smell, an idea. I could write from a one perspective only. I could venture into any pipeline and let me slide to the epilogue.

Because every simple line has an epilogue. A certain conclusion, a due one, a logically deduced one.

Instead, I insist on re-reading Plato and his Symposium, granting myself the freedom of an improvised translator. I reenact the myth in my own way, I offer to the story some contemporaneity.

So here is where the ball-beings become socks and they wander sadly inside the house. We all know this very sad phenomenon, unpairdness is their miserable condition.

And what if they mate with others? Well, it happens, of course it happens when you have no other choice or if you are too sleepy or if you don’t care. But they rarely leave the house and only in extreme cases, generally hidden under a pair of very long jeans or under the boots. The unpaired couple is usually worn to shop at the supermarket or to take the dog to piss or to put the rubbish outside.

Sometimes it is flaunted, the oddity, the flashy combination, the originality of the case. But, and we all know it, in the long run it creates embarrassment, sometimes even shame. It can be, we do it, but it cannot withstand the unexpected or to be shown for a longer time than a day or two. The weird couple does not stand, it simply doesn’t hold out the important and meaningful moments of life.

Here is the actuality of the myth, its truth over time!

We are like a pair of socks, which we wore with pride and a touch of arrogance: we are waiting to be able to dance again. Together in pair, as in the past.

It does not matter if our momentary mismatch is the result of a careless housewife, a hellish centrifuge, a bored cat or a spiteful wind: we wait.

For this I will not tell the thousand stories, I will not follow any pipeline. Nor will I make strange and inconvenient couplings.

I will wait, and if necessary I will bear my half of cold.