The Lonely Phrase

3/4 Cruelty

I kept waiting to see if the words would come out. A long time ago I was twelve years old.

I liked to walk barefoot outside the house, and I earned reprimands from my brother and my mother, they told me that I would end up hurting my fingers; but I, who was not particularly someone who enjoyed the company of others, saw in that little pain a living identity: it was nice to know that everything you can step on can also continue standing.

That's why I liked to look at the grass and how it grew despite everything, I imagined it as a long chain and for moments, I wondered if there was more to it than what others thought. Without necessarily being fantastic, I came to promise myself to look at it every day.

However, I grew up, and other things had more relevance.

Almost like when you're young and fascinated by controlling your breath one second and involuntarily sighing the next, my own vision of what I considered fascinating ended, instead I became preoccupied with the nuisance of its existence independent of whatever value I attached to it. . Because that existence was less interesting to me than the pain not necessarily caused by my prevalence or flight.

I realized the twisted relationship between being crazy and existing, because existence itself is an indispensable act of madness. A bunch of components from absolutely nothing create, without any doubt, a being that is as abstract as it is complex in that it can walk, think and reproduce. You find value in staying on this earth as a species rather than an individual, that blinds you to the community around you. We can't be anti-fragile, but it's as if we like the idea of inventing so many available races and endings to stop stepping on ourselves, when it is that act, self-contempt, that leads us to continue in this life.

As such, I, who somehow see myself involved in the lives of thousands of others like me, have to find an orderly meaning in all of this, in the truth of language and meanings, in order to share that messages of help do not they are there with the mere intention of annoying; no, they are there because they deserve to be there, because they have earned it with sweat, with interest, but above all, due to their own stubbornness in killing its roots, even when the tree has become so heavy that it has to fall with all its components. could destroy the planet.

A rock among thousands of rocks, we are a tower without windows. Even if the so-called god opens them, the question of his omnipotence is manageable only in contexts of need for something that justifies crying. I can't find a path that doesn't work for me but strange as it may seem, I reject everyone.

I am a traveler of people, thought, life and loneliness. I want pretty faces, I want to be a jerk at least once in life, like those who seem to have a simple life without understanding the basics and let others decide for him. They point to them as strangers, but in reality we all would like to distance ourselves from the concept of dignity, and find that our constitution of belonging to the one we consider suitable, takes away our madness a little.

I don't know all the time that it's a luxury I can't afford, that I have to stay here. In the end I only think, writing again an anonymous declaration of love in my letters, the simplicity of my frustrating condition: I'm alive, so I must be crazy.

How cruel, really, to have to think that I only intend to suffer like this until I find the little rays of happiness that would make sense, if only I weren't so stubborn in letting everything others say about me sink in. inside, even when I run away from the idea of belonging to popular ideas.

I am part of them, and in the same way it feels useless to resist. They are chains that have been there for so long, and I have held the key in my hands since I was born... but everything is alien. Everything hurts.

Everything is human.