Late - For the second anniversary of the Great Tohoku Earthquake

Here is the English version of the short thing I wrote for the second anniversary of March 11th. My localization into American English, so please forgive the awkwardness.

You will never forget, the moment the earth shook

 - from "Fist of the North Star" Italian opening titles song

Because March 11th of two years ago was like September 11th of twelve years ago and like November 22nd of 50 years ago: you can't forget the loss of innocence. Because, even if was not around the day JFK got shot, I can remember well enough the collapse of the Twin Towers: I was comfortably sitting in front of my computer. Just like I was in front of my computer – but a lot less comfortably – when the Earth decided to remind those who live in that skinny piece of crust called Japan that we creatures are nothing more than guests in our travel over its surface, hitchhikers to unload at the occurrence, a casual event to discharge with über-natural nonchalance.

Magnitude 9. It didn't happen in Tokyo: here the physical damage was limited to a few chipped mugs. In the Tohoku, closer to the epicenter, I never quite understood how much destruction the earthquake in itself brought: of course, Italy would have been razed to the ground, but Japanese buildings were pretty sturdy against the shaking. But later came the tsunami. And a bit later yet, came the "nuclear tsunami". So even in Tokyo the feeling of security waned and those lucky enough like me flew away. Then the Italian warmth watered down the bitter aftertaste of cowardice that persisted in our mouths.

After two years, sometimes you think you can be back: in a place, in an emotion. But it's never like that. Smart people tell us that every time we make love it's because we want to relive the experience of the first time. But – even if better than that time – it will never be the same. Because us and them are constricted in the direction of our time arrow. There's not turning back.

Especially after destruction. Picking up the debris to rebuild. Certainties, relationships, homes: everything new, possibly better than before. But do we really feel better? Maybe. But only if entropy is unaccounted for: the mourning, the climbing back, the heat dissipated in the universe.

I cannot understand the horrors and the hardships of those that lived – and maybe still live – up north, closer to Fukushima, with a unresolvable nuclear problem, infinite on human scale. But infinite empathy is something of god alone, and I'm left with my little system made of small and irrationals angers and with that little suffering I felt directly: the crumbling of a ton of securities and of my ideal friendship with this country that – even though it's impossible to hate a nation where in the news the mating of pandas takes precedence over Kate Middleton pregnancy – has never been completely mended.

And when the earthquake returns, like on December 7th of last year with a tremor of magnitude 7.3, it might barely tickle Japanese buildings (and I restate: Italy would be  razed to the ground), but the fear is still there: foremost to relive the tragedy of March 11th. And then that everything could actually turn out worse. Who is to say that next time Fujiyama won't explode and bury us all in a cloud of smoke? But when there are no consequences, cataclysms aren't such and we are only left with the hurry to forget.

We pretend things only happen to strangers
We shake our heads at the tragedy

But that's the only way we have to carry on. Writing feels good, until the ink lasts. Then all that remains is an aimless arrow and the excitement of trying out a next generation liquid detergent: it cleans deep, and clothes come out softer, flower-scented and spotless like a still immaculate soul. Like the soul of a son that sleeps whenever the earth shakes. Who can blame him?