Beautiful Mind E-Book

Margherita Coralluzzo

• Herausgeber: Youcanprint
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In a day that felt like any other, Elena's life took an unexpected turn with the loss of her last family member. A young skeptic of faith, she found herself engulfed in existential crisis, prompting a radical decision: to purge everything she owned at home. As she rummaged through forgotten items in an old trunk, her gaze fell upon yellowed letters—her grandmother Gemma's. Within those fragile pages, a mysterious phrase repeatedly caught her attention: "beautiful mind." What could it mean? Who was this "beautiful mind"? Driven by curiosity, Elena embarked on a journey for answers. In the enveloping silence of her solitude, she encountered not only her own reflections but also a palpable presence, as if guiding her—a divine whisper steering her towards self-discovery. Each step illuminated her path, unveiling the essence of the beautiful mind. This inner journey transformed Elena. She learned that true beauty dwells not just in appearances but profoundly within the human spirit. With her grandmother's letters and newfound courage, Elena embraced her beautiful mind with gratitude, empowering her to face the future with renewed confidence.

Leseprobe

Contents

Titolo

Diritto d'autore

Full stop!

Between the lines

Now it is my turn!

Reinvent yourself

And do not be afraid...

The dawn

Deciphering emotions

Unknown streets

Not now

White and black

Minus zero

I cannot explain it…

Find the words

When the heart…

Two souls welcoming each other

Revelation

The right key

Goodbye friend

A beautiful mind

I saw more than before…

Guide

Copertina

Start

Thank you for choosing this book.

Title | ‘Beautiful Mind’ - When Reason Joins Heart

Author | Margherita Coralluzzo

ISBN | 9791222791487

© 2025 - All rights reserved by the Author

This work is published directly by the Author through the selfpublishing platform Youcanprint and the Author holds all exclusive rights. No part of this book may therefore be reproduced without the prior consent of the Author.

Youcanprint

Via Marco Biagi 6, 73100 Lecce

www.youcanprint.it

Made by human

To my mother

(07/17/1939 – 04/25/2015)

I can't deny the fact that anyone in the world can love us or will love us as much as a mother.

With all the love I have in my heart, Margherita.

Rememberingp. Carlo Cappai

The art of living consists in knowing how to mix wellforgetting and remembering.– Henry Ellis

Full stop!

Se la mia fede è solo in quello che si vede forse i miei sogni nessuno mai li fermerà […] Ho voglia di ricominciare senza farmi più condizionare Anema e core, Pino Daniele

Starting again... How many times in my life have I used this clause? And you? Starting to hope again, starting to get back on track, unfortunately starting a treatment again, starting again after the end of a love story, starting again with a new job, starting to smile again, starting to take control of one's life again and live it…

The story I am about to tell you has the aim—at least I hope so—of arousing in you the same emotional confusion that I felt when I experienced some events both as a protagonist and as a spectator and which spurred me to get up and start again...

I will start the presentations. I want you to immediately consider me a friend who, with spontaneous familiarity, wants to involve you in her life, making you an integral part of the story. I would like you to be with me, the soul of the words that will flow below, and that by reading them, you can make me part of your daily life.

My name? Who I am? I am Elena Adina, which means “sunshine” and “delicate”. Just call me Elena.

It was a Saturday morning in April 2008 when I decided to put my life in order, which was confusing both externally and internally. Let me start by saying that I am a rather emotional person and, at that time, was not a believer, or rather was looking for something "visible" and not "invisible" to believe in. I often avoided physical contact by withdrawing my sweaty hands, and I scratched my nose while looking away rather than unbalancing my body towards an embrace (leaving the person who had reluctantly leaned towards me uncomfortable and poised). I did not like myself much, and when a woman doesn't like herself, she sees herself as too fat, too thin, with dishevelled hair, as the shape of the pillow after a sleepless night, or excessively treated with iridescent colours. They take on a scruffy look by wearing clothes one or two sizes larger, men's sweaters, or, on the contrary, very short skirts, tops, sleeveless dresses, or one size and, in cases of maximum insecurity, two sizes smaller. Sometimes, perhaps, our excesses represent the internal cry that we drag inside us, accompanied by that temporary sensation, we hope, of bewilderment in the intricate streets of our mind and heart. And when your mind and heart take different paths, it's easy to get confused and lose your way.

Personally, I was in the “scruffy style” category—shapeless tracksuits and jeans, hair in frizzy waves, some locks twisted like knots, with shades of coppery caramel that looked like a river in flood at the delicate touch of the first warm rays of the April sun. I often wore them in a queue because I didn't appreciate their natural beauty. Black, blue, grey, white tracksuits and high-waisted, low-waisted jeans, some with narrow legs and many with bell bottoms... Let us say that jeans were, and, in truth, still are, my favourite item. There was no shortage of them in my wardrobe because they were practical and comfortable, especially because of the extra size I bought with the excuse of hiding my curves instead of recognizing that I wanted to hide my insecurity.

Thinking about it, I could have purchased different models in the right size, which would have softened my figure without highlighting it. How wrong can a person see themselves when they do not love themselves?

Too much talk! Let us continue with the story of that April morning.

I was in a phase of life where I felt the need to let my soul breathe. I was trapped in a mental hovel. I needed to understand my place in the world. I wanted to regain control of myself. Have you ever felt that internal discomfort that physically oppresses your chest? Have you had, at least once in your life, the perception that you were doing something wrong? I do not know—a job, a friendship, a spiritual journey, savouring the solicitude of a thought from the heart that pushed you to start again? An insistent knock on the bones of your sternum? To stir a voice in your belly that seemed to suggest, "Courage! Do something"?

Well. I was in this state—no more, no less.

After a period in which I had necessarily found myself locked in the house to care for my paternal grandmother, who was in bed after a fall resulting in a fracture of the femur and who later died, I started to have a dialogue with myself.

I had been living alone with my grandmother since I lost my dad.

With no desire to go beyond the walls of that house, to which was added yet another sentimental disappointment, I was able to reflect for a long time on what I was carrying as a general psychophysical malaise. On the other hand, I tried to understand what positive things I had acquired in my heart.

That famous April morning, I woke up with an unusual sensation of well-being that started from the depths of my spirit and radiated through the complete stretching of my arms and legs, all accompanied by a faint yawn that ended in a smile.

My eyes widened, and astonished, I said to myself, "What happened? I do not remember anything, but there is a scent of change in the air. I feel regenerated."

I know! Maybe an idea has popped into your head: "This is crazy." I answer that to find the courage to honestly change the things in life that are not working for the good, not for the bad, you probably also need a good and healthy dose of madness. I repeat: healthy.

What matters is to be aware of it and, when you are, try not to exceed the limits of reason, or at least try to maintain a certain serenity. Some would say, "Keep calm down."

Examining myself in the mirror with my eyebrows furrowed and my mouth rigid in a linear position, I decisively said, "You, yes you, today you will begin a good cleansing by separating yourself from all the futile things of your external and internal life. From today, miss! You must make an effort and react. Start by getting rid of what makes you miss even the air you breathe."

Meanwhile, the index finger of my right hand pointed at my reflection in the mirror, as if to encourage me.

I opened the wardrobes, armed myself with patience, and, opening my arms wide, collected all sorts of things without thinking twice: clothes, sheets, coats, all by a meticulous selection.

Step two: I opened the drawers and observed the walls, the desk, the drawers, and the cupboard. I removed every painting from the walls and every ornament.

Step three: the kitchen. I kept a few utensils and the necessary pans.

Step four: the library. Only the books that had touched my heart and broadened the horizons of my knowledge.

There were very few essential items left in each room, in sight or out of sight. The ones in excellent condition I set aside to donate, while the shabby ones were thrown away. You cannot imagine, or maybe you can, the enormous sense of satisfaction, relief, and freedom I felt at the end of that tiring job of downsizing the house and myself. It took me about twenty days and two hundred hours of my time to pack thirty black bags and gain abundant hours of good night's sleep again.

Between the lines

Ci vuole poco per sentirsi più vicini. Scrivimi quando il cielo sembrerà più limpido, le giornate ormai si allungano, ma tu non aspettar la sera Scrivimi, Nino Buonocore

I reached the fateful number five: the chest of memories.

I was about to get to work when the doorbell rang.

I headed straight for the door. I did not even have time to lean out the peephole in the door when a voice on the other side exclaimed, "Elena, it's me!"

"Who am I?" I replied with a certain irony in the intonation of my voice, just to play a bit with my dearest friend.

Camilla means "minister of God", and you should know that Camilla was and is a person with a strong character but at the same time endowed with patient benevolence, which influences me favourably. I know she is sincere and direct but also affectionate. It gives me that serenity that everyone needs. She listens to my problems without adding to them, in the sense that she avoids allying herself with me by supporting me against someone—inciting anger, in truth, I think is of little use. She tries to understand me, helping me evaluate the events from an impartial perspective. Exactly what I hoped for and what I want, since for me, it is an indication of honesty, concreteness, and great affection towards me.

Camilla is a budding and homeless radio journalist. She is also an orphan of both parents, like me. She goes around Italy with her mini professional radio station kit consisting of a PC, sound card, mixer, condenser microphone, and headphones, kept in her inseparable hard case, ready to go on air immediately.

She is constantly looking for interviews with more or less

well-known personalities from the entertainment industry, for her very personal radio program dedicated to healthy eating, broadcast three days a week.

She has a jaunty figure with thick, amber hair and a fashionable cut: layered and often short. She assumes facial expressions that I personally find funny. For example, she wrinkles her nose, protruding her mouth forward like a tight kiss, to give impetus to the desired dark tone of her imitative voice, ready to make you smile.

That day too, in front of my house door, she did the same.

I opened the door, showing my thirty-two teeth, and said, “Welcome home, my dear.”

Camilla replied, "Speak Italian because you're very bad at this dull English, my dear."

We looked into each other's eyes with a look of mock challenge. However, we could not contain the mirth that the wavering cheeks showed, and we emitted the strident sound of suppressed laughter.

“Darling, what are you doing?” she asked.

"Spring cleaning. The famous change of season! I am giving everything away; I don't want to own anything anymore. Of course, put like that, it might seem strange, but..."

I did not even have time to explain before Camilla interrupted me. “Elena, so much for spring cleaning! Do we want to talk about it?” And she took me by the arm with a face that showed me her fake horror with wide eyes and puckered closed lips.

“Come on, Camilla, I am very serious, aware, calm, and I have spirit to spare. I am finding more clarity within myself, which has not happened to me in a while. It is true; I do not know its goal. In the meantime, I want to concentrate and enjoy this boost of optimism. When you must invent something or rebuild it, you start from scratch, right? Well, couldn't this apply to me too? And just as objects to be remodelled need those basic pieces to be perfected, so do I. Could man, in the absence of fixed points of objective values, push himself into the meanders of the unknown universe and emerge unscathed? Is it possible to grope and no longer know what limit must not be exceeded? Joy, dear. I prefer to cheer for myself and take back my only one life, with the good and evil that it teaches me, with eyes wide open, holding on to the roots of who I actually am. And I wonder, who is Elena? Is there a reason why I also exist on this earth?"

Camilla looked at me and gave me a thin smile of approval.

“You have lost the light of reason! I will tell you nothing but newfound wisdom.”

“Did you drink sour wine for breakfast instead?”

“You know, however, I actually see you as different.”

"View? I am a new woman!”

“A woman who has seen the light at the end of the tunnel! Yes, you are.”

“Wow, Camilla, don't exaggerate. You embarrass me,” I said, covering my face with one hand.

“But whatever! That is not true, dear. So do not get carried away. But maybe... I see that... You have a brighter colour on those beautiful red cheeks. Did you go to the seaside?”

"In April?”

And we hugged each other with an intense sensation of warmth, of peace, beyond that apparently insignificant squabble.

Camilla asked, “How far along are you? Can I help you?”

"Of course you can! Let us put together a trunk that I am too attached to. And that is not good. I do not like the idea of being attached to things.”

"Elena, now you're exaggerating," said Camilla. “You are not an attached person to material things! I know you very well.”

“Okay. Start!”

“Stop this terrible English!”

Grinning heartily, we prepared to lift the lid of that large trunk made of dark, worn wood with veins of mahogany reflections that enhanced the faded paintwork. It had been made at the beginning of the twentieth century and had belonged to my maternal grandmother.

Opening that case, I was immersing myself in different sensations: amazement, anxiety, adrenaline mixed with the desire to know what it could contain in addition to the many photo albums that I would have retained.

And I won't tell you how my imagination began to wander as soon as I spotted its content: luminous radiation that seemed to bring out the soul of the people who had preceded me and to whom photos, letters, postcards from the world, objects of all sorts and eras. I saw their story projected like a film in my mind, almost like a hallucination.

Standing in respectful silence and with a barely noticeable sigh, Camilla and I began rummaging, careful not to ruin what I should have kept, moving every smallest object with a light hand.

While sorting the letters, I noticed some that always had the same colour, a pale yellow, with burgundy-red squiggles in the four corners of the envelope. Out of curiosity, I put them aside and accumulated fifty.

Halfway through the emptying work, we stopped exhausted on the ground, in the midst of that pile of rubble and papers, envelopes with photos, albums, postcards, and trophies, and we decided to take a break.

“Of course, you too, Elena! But how much did you write? At least a dozen diaries passed through my hands. Letters, small books, and poems composed by you! You never told me you like writing so much.”

“Why should I? It is a passion that dates back several years and that I have abandoned.” I looked up at the ceiling in a catatonic state of momentary isolation from the world. Having regained possession of my mental faculties, with a sullen face, I added, “Why did I abandon this passion? Well... The fact is that I have not written for a while. What do you say, instead, to reading some letters from that correspondence that I have put aside?” I took a letter from the stack and fiddled with it, opening the envelope.

"Go. Let us investigate, let us investigate! In my opinion, they are love letters from your grandfather and grandmother. What do you say, my friend?”