Horizonte Vazio

Writing so much about myself makes me self-centered... in a bizarre way. As if I were someone outside myself, a character in a book. But I also spend my whole days reading, writing, listening to music, dancing and brooding over the past. I'm lonely like the devil. Did I mention that she must be lonely like the devil? She'll never read me, never see me again. But I will continue to write to her, about her. I am aware of the fact that I'm perfectly intoxicated, but I would easily give up any of my four senses, any organ in my body to be close to her again. Just to touch her with my fingertips, to ask her everything about everything; just to tell her more about all those things of mine that no one understands anyway. Nobody but her, the nymph. She sees, she captures everything. She knows everything. She knows I'm in love with her shadow. And her horizon must be as empty as mine...

Cried my heart out yesterday. Cried out for all my frustration. For all of my shallowness. For all of my dishonesty. For all of my shame and guilt. And for all of my deserved loneliness. I run the purity and kindness of people who don’t know me through the dirt of my perversion. I decided to make a comedy out of my life, yet I’m the only joke to be laughed about. I feel evil and I feel ashamed. I fooled him, and I’ll never be like him. I cried for them both. Shame and guilt. Shame and guilt. I’m meant to lose everything I yearn for, I’m meant to be passive. It was fine though. I’m also meant to cry twice every single year, a sacred rule I always end up following. I’m perversely Electra-complexed. It must be it. At least I can turn the dirt into something appreciable.

My dear, life is like a beach, full of shells. Most of them look exactly the same, although inside some may keep a treasure. Then some others are absolutely hollow and shallow, whatever, even these shells have their respectable place in the beach. Then there are the unique, exotic-looking shells, unlike any others; these can keep treasures or not, just like any other shell. And what to do with this minority? To leave the exotic shells quiet in their place, discreetly hidden amongst the others is the best we can do. But I don't know how to do that. When I see an exotic shell - that is, more exotic than myself ... - my only desire is to take possession of it. Grab it, dissect it, undo it as if I could possibly take all of that beauty for myself. Beauty, radiance, light, serenity. Owning, grabbing and consuming, these are my prevailing instincts. I am cruel and worthless. And viciously jealows. There was a huge weight on each lobe of each of my ears these past few weeks. The weigh...

The wetness of the tomb won’t let you sleep, / Feel my hand on your chest / Let us erase the distance / As if it was a part of the story we could simply forget / How I longed to feel your long hair on my face again / Closer in my arms I could have kept you back then...