I am bombarded with tasks I don’t like to perform, friends I don’t like to hang out with, books I don’t like to read, movies I don’t like to watch, women I don’t like flirting with, food I don’t like to eat, places I hate visiting and so forth. Life has given me enough, enough of it all. What I throw away comes back with just as much velocity as I had thrown it with. We are all stuck into a singular fate and there is no chance at all. There ought to be someone beside us who is ready to suck out all the pain, all the agony, all the nothingness, from us. There ought to be someone. But it is too difficult to find a person who acknowledges the nights, the dim lights, the solitude and the calm conversations, with as much appreciation as we do. In some way or other, we are all going mad, crazy as fuck. Despite knowing it is not going to happen, we keep looking. We keep smoking and drinking and humming sad songs as we lie in our beds. The flesh rips apart and the bones ache. The eyes oscillate and the lips shiver. Red lips--bloody red. Our hands stretch wide as if trying to hug someone, someone invisible. And it all happens in the night. It feels like our heads will burst open and the dirty virus with which they are filled will come crawling out. But it doesn’t happen. We all have our own eccentric ways of dealing with it. Some get their eyes glued on the phone screen, waiting for someone to talk friendlily to them. Some stay awake the whole night and write dirty shitloads of poems, sad poems filled with a lot of emotions. Some smoke cigarettes and drink jars of beer. Some sing classical masterpieces of Mozart, whereas some simply sit there in the midnight and look at the moving hands of the clock. The next day, the regular men give their wives or girlfriends 3 goodbye kisses and go to work while the rest like you (probably) and I stay in bed until noon. And then, they wake up half in sleep, brush, shit, force-feed, wear whatever they find in front of themselves and go out to do something they are hardly sure about.
There are some people who are always seized in pain. It is as if they were born with it. And no matter what they do or how hard they try to get rid of it, they are simple trapped in it. As time rolls by, they get more and more certain about the collapse of their future. They stop throwing their legs and hands and accept, with resignation, whatever little they are offered of life. Such people like experimenting with art. For it is probably the only thing that provides them a bit of relief... or escape. They like creating new pieces of it which they mostly keep secret. And when their time comes, they, like all horses and hyenas, die, leaving little to no property behind but gigantic works of art. And then, people buy their sweet little legacy and appreciate their life stories and keep them in exclusive places in their homes.
What a life!
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