Green, purple, blue. Dark brow, light blue now. Reddish pink, subtle discolourations of white, to grey… Yellow?
There is a shadow behind me in the mirror… Is it you, again? It is expectable and astonishing at the same time, how you never get tired of appearing on my mind. You have no better thing to do than to hunt my heart, that falls like an innocent kid, for the same little trap. On and on. Every time. You know it, I know it. Why does this game never end?
If I tell you, both fists hide the same treat, which one you’d choose? It will never end, I know it.
Knowing the fist is coming doesn’t make it any less painful to the skin, but then; this way, pain does not find the way inside: this way, it can’t hurt you.
I just finished reading The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka and I can barely arrive to express my indignation. What a precise feeling, though. From the first to the last, in every page, nonsensicality. How could it be possible? For the author’s time, I thought about all the men, that became a responsibility for their families because of war wounds or illness, they ended up being unable to work, to produce. How painful it must have been, that after all the efforts and forgetting completely about their own desires and identity to obey their duties, they had to tolerate feeling and being called a “burden” for society, even so by their own relatives. This metaphor can apply to so many: fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, retired elders specially… How cruel this society is. I will never allow this injustice in my own home, if I ever get to build one.
My work about suicide for University took a turn, and now I think it’s even more interesting and pertinent. I have to do so much more research, as the prior discoveries are longer so-specific. I find it hard to organize my ideas, there’s so much to say. As I seem to get lost in the lines, I do not worry; this current storm is for me, the first and most important sign of my process: confusion. Ideas, that seem to not touch each other: I know you do. I’m knitting this slowly, and soon it will appear: the pattern.
Order, come to me.
I spoke to a very good friend on the phone about life and soon the conversation got slightly apocalyptic. You know, when that happens, how useful it is to remember better times, when we were together, how wonderful it will be when we reunite. Nothing compares to the spark of hope of a long-awaited, non-dated reunion. No matter how grim the forecast seems, the future can always bring better days than the ones you consider your “classics”.
Got to give it a chance… And you will see.