The virus of rage and resentment it’s in me, visceral hate without apparent clue; like a beast, or like a god, I hate every man, tirelessly. It’s a hate that flows in my veins and infects every my cell, multiplying relentlessly until it destroys every immune defense.
At the mercy of ferocious muscular convulsions, I curse every my attempt in order to regain control on the self, claiming total obfuscation, finally loosing the noose that ties me to this existence, as an enraged beast, pouring on the being all my organism’s infected blood, poisoning the spirit with corrupt matter.
Around me, between gloom that surrounds me, there is no more anyone who walks beside me, around me there is only the wormy mass, “the man” with its swarming, mild, desperately mediocre and dull, blabbering about his superiority as the final means and crowning of the universe.
Fearing the day when he will notice the Creator hasn’t created this day anymore; that nobody has gone out of his hands, at the awakening, that there is nothing more than foam from the thinking nothing, and that the world endangers itself rapidly, since the divine veins has gone dry, everything that can be seen, everything that surrounds you is the creator’s corpse.
A tremendous nausea constantly attacks me, forcing me to spit blood. It’s the inexorable progressing of a disease brought to who, forced to sit in a laid table with battering food and worms, sees himself forced to eat purulent morsels of decomposed remains, accompanied by commensals hungry of the most infamous filths that this life is used to serve. Fathers and at the same time sons of this eternal famine, crave hungry every remains of this world, bland placebo capable to placate temporarily to most of them their constant and insatiable appetite.
Bones’ dust of who preceded us runs inside the hourglasses, marking the time of this still present, a tomorrow which is not progress but constant fall into the abyss. I already see in the men’s wretched faces that surrounds me, dust grains that will mark their sons’ passage of time, unwanted gift for whom that will go ahead this circular path. As a simian imitation, we inherited from the creator this unfortunate incapability of remaining inside the self; to generate is for us to continue, in a different way, the lowest feat that carries his own name, as to add something to this decadent “creation”.
What is deeply rooted and less perceptible in us, is the sense of essential failure, secret to everyone, even to God, we are doomed not to be conscious of it and to live incapable of knowing until what point we are alone.
Without any escape, I am encircled by this cancerous desert that devours every solitude oasis, metastatic tumor that advances inexorably looking for new lymph, insatiable inside an organism which has been reduced to nothing, exhausted.
What do I wait for before I surrender? This disease reminds me an intimidation, disguised as an interrogative. I pretend not to hear, even though that the next time I’ll must have the courage to succumb.