Galliano Brigo

Chronicle of an Anomaly: My Tuning

I was born on a rainy Friday, November 17, 1972. The world expected me ten days earlier, but I had already decided that my time wouldn’t follow the rhythm of others; a "phase lag" that, in hindsight, was my first encounter with that Missed Velocity I would spend a lifetime writing about.

I grew up in the southern outskirts of Milan, in a microcosm made of fog and sacrifice. Money was always tight, but the space was dense with presence: I shared a room with my brother and my grandmother—my true guide, the woman who raised me while my parents were out fighting for our future. In that room, between the breathing of those I loved and the silence of the suburban courtyards, I learned to observe what everyone else ignored.

My biological biography started on an uphill climb. I was a frail child, almost transparent—"sickly" by definition. I had my adenoids removed very young and was sentenced to four years of painful penicillin shots that drummed the rhythm of my childhood. I had flat feet and wore heavy orthopedic shoes; to my classmates, I was "the scrap," the one nobody wanted on the team because I didn’t run fast enough, or I didn’t run right.

In that forced solitude, I found my allies: books, physics, chemistry. While the others were out playing soccer, I was studying matter and its reactions. I graduated as a chemist, but my mind never stopped at atoms. I devoured everything, building a general culture that was my only true escape. I wanted to understand the "why" of things—perhaps because the "how" had caused me too much pain.

Then, at the end of elementary school, my "symmetry breaking" occurred. I decided that my body would no longer be a limit. But I couldn't do it with others: I had to do it alone. If I won, it was my credit; if I lost, it was my fault. No alibis.

I started with track and field, moved on to gymnastics—learning to master the void between the parallel bars and the rings—and finally landed in combat sports. Savate, Kickboxing, and those mixed matches on Sunday afternoons in the park, where theory vanished and only the frequency of impact remained. In that sought-after and mastered pain, I understood that resilience isn't just muscular; it’s vibrational.

Today, when I write about the Brane, the Bulk, or Kaelen’s sacrifice, I’m not just writing science fiction. I am translating those rainy Sundays, those heavy shoes, and the hum I felt in my ears after every blow I took into literary equations.

I am the chemist who learned to fight, and the fighter who never stopped studying the universe. I write because I realized we are all "scraps" in a reality that wants us to be perfect, and it is precisely in that harmony of the flaw where our only true freedom lies.