All hail the new flesh!
As I was walking up the stair I met a
Man Who Was not There.
He Was not there again today.
I wish, I wish he'd stay away.
Obviously I'm throwing in my reckless way "the last days here." As if they were worth something regardless, I would say. As if then it is necessary to enhance them in some way, one might think.
But the truth is that all this waiting, preparing, greetings, attempts to imagine what will happen once there, is nothing but a pile of nonsense puerile, seedy stagings made up for an audience not reached. I still do not prove anything, as if all this was happening to someone else, not even someone I know or think I'm sympathetic, frankly. It is like seeing a neighbor, one in which over the years has never received more than a greeting, a smile of circumstance in the cold of the morning to pack up and go away. Enjoy your trip, as you did the last name?, Ah fuck, they just raised the plate.
I believe they are not here for a while ', now. Someone has taken my place, maybe this is the same that has a prepaid card in the name mio, ci ha messo dentro dei soldi, mi ha acquistato il biglietto e poi se l’è filata. Non che la cosa mi dia fastidio, in fondo, però poteva almeno chiedermi che ne pensavo.
Comunque sia.
Io non sono qui da un bel pezzo, ma davvero non so dire dove mi trovi ora. Se c’è qualcosa di simile al Limbo credo di esserci cascato dentro, e potrei anche essermi fracassato il bacino nella caduta, perché trascinarmi da una parte all’altra è davvero difficile, ed è uno sforzo inutile. Avete presente quando, nel pieno del sonno, vi svegliate all’improvviso ma non siete spaventati da un incubo, né vi è venuta in mente qualche idea geniale o vi siete ricordati qualche scadenza (generalmente fabbricata immediately before and justified by distant memories, which are also just born), but simply open your eyes, his brow furrowed, and you wonder "who is who called me?" or "So I was saying?" and , although there has of course no one called, stay for several hours are filled with unpleasant sense that something escapes you? To me it happens for days, sometimes even three hundred and sixty in a row. The last time it was deadly.
I woke up the oldest of whom I respect a number of years between 3 and 4, and was considerably dumber, uglier, more insignificant and boring, a real sick. Even worse, when they wake up I was not even in my bed I was in my car, stopped, and I was in the passenger seat.
For some moments I did not hear anything outside of that unpleasant feeling of incompleteness and discomfort, I looked around, then I looked at my hands. I touched his face and neck.
The girl next to me crying and repeating her voice hoarse excuse excuse excuse to avoid looking at me, her head swayed by reviewing me and the steering wheel, steering wheel and me. The car against which we came, confused eyes passed slowly by me to the girl, the girl in me. People on the street shortened and slowed down the steps, then turned defiant in our direction, waiting. The first thoughts of
I pierced my mind was, more or less: "too bad it did not hurt, such a golden opportunity would have required a scar commemorative"
So while the poor continued to chant the clumsy apology, for a moment I was losing completely, following a chain of confused thoughts and deadly. Back at the June 5, 2002, for another of those memorable days in their sumptuous sadness, mornings as swollen bellies pregnant with deformed fetuses, full of possibilities opened up and let it close, optional steps on landings unsafe collapsing while you're still there watching and assess, as the mezzeseghe who you are and you will be forever, whether it is the case of pass or not. That morning, extraordinarily rich in ideas that, like any good sediciassettenne, gathered in real time for writing phony mythology of my two-bit, it seemed so worthy of eternal memory, I decided to make permanent, if not pain, at least his memory. So, with an excuse, defied my Compagnucci of raids to shut down on a lit cigarette, and their obvious refusal I did the same, own. Procrastinai long in order to obtain from their disbelief and ridicule, so I could first feel morally obliged to honor my commitments (under penalty of loss of face), and secondly to make him angry enough with expression charged with contempt and can print on the face. I lifted the sleeve on the butt and calcai 10 cm further down on my wrist, to burn all the skin and you get to the flesh. The moment was a nice feeling, the pain was so strong (so I remember it, or so they told me they are, who knows) to cause the brain to shed copious amounts of endorphins to calm him down, and then for a minute or two was a real party to my senses and my ego, gratified by the gaping mouths of my boyfriends and girlfriends. Okay then, the free ride ended quickly, certainly well before the end of my moral obligation to maintain the same victorious expression on his face. That day, incidentally, I met very a person who later turned out to be a key figure in my development (interrupting, in effect, and making me a teenager VND), and I mean after my self-inflicted torture. What a terrific insight.
A fool may ask then: I would have never met if I had not burned his arm?; The I burned my arm just before meeting her, has perhaps helped to create in me a series of unrealistic expectations, which have post filled with predestination our meeting?; The eternal burning could have made a "key figure in my development" any other girl I had been presented that day?; Moccia But I saw how I do it?
And so on.
So, here you go back to the car. After all this I'm still sitting there, unable to take matters in hand, looking around like an idiot and wondering what the hell am I doing there, almost 24 year old, without a penny or something in my hand, without an idea, without any conceived to design and then put in place (or at least well underway) and, most importantly, in my mother's car, smashed, while a person who barely know is in the driving seat with my permission.
The last part is tolerable after all, once you admit you have been, at the moment, just a reckless jerk. But if it adds to the first, well, becomes a sensation pretty shocking. Thus softened
idea of death has found its way inside my head. Whatever this might seem more bearable at the moment, so I tried to imagine how it would feel to know that he must die soon, say after a month. Close your outstanding bills, address conflicts, you shameless outbursts with those who made you angry, and who knows what else. Die so it seemed a very good idea, especially the hassle of physical pain that cancer brings with it along with the countdown. Just think 'what would your emotional past few days, so full of revelry, blowjob obtained mercy of people who want to share time with you.
And yet, here I am, completely indifferent to everything, it seems, is happening to me. No one has a great desire to celebrate, among other things, because it is a periodaccio for all. The arguments are there and I vent, yes, but in general they think, rightly, that I am a psychopath in a fist fight with some dragon in your head. And no women, nor pity, nor anger, nor for love. The girl in the car, perhaps foolishly hoped to ingratiate himself with the granting of a ride, now it rose by guilt, and this makes every day more miserable, rude, impatient. The worst thing that can happen to a person is suffering and not be wrong the heart to punish him severely: he lost his only chance to get some revenge and with respect for the offender. The one with which he has maintained a decent relationship, and that mysteriously I have avoided for months, does not want to meet me. Can not see me before leaving, he says, because the upset the precarious peace of mind, if I stayed here because we do not think twice but now that it is not logical and we also ferirebbe just because of that other do not care but it is a nice guy and does not deserve a double game, not a fleeting encounter which does not follow anything except nostalgia, regret, and who knows what else. And that, right? It has, has. If you do not even think None of this, it would be so full of common sense and determination to really convince me. Never have I wanted so much deliberately break your heart to someone, introduce myself on purpose to see the tears streak her face. It would be nice.
But I will not, as I will not do many other things, and I'll be here just to waste time until Tuesday like a damn fool, to call "death" a fucking trip, to pick up anything that human I planted in these years of social torpor in appearing confident and groped all solar so as not to alarm apprehensive relatives, who from time to time grant for a quiet life to give me some junk essential for a trip, as suitcases, pajamas, slippers, toothbrush, money, valuable advice, recommendations sincere, wool scarves, when in the end, despite appearances, everything you need to take a trip is the icy consciousness of having failed, a dry thud of the ceramic process, the will to burn the flesh of the new reform allowing old around the scar.
Basically there are many differences between those who have had thousands of possibilities to choose from and has wasted all, and who has never had any. The first condition may be a more subtle form of the second, after all. Maybe, without resorting to the destiny, it is so for all.
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