25.1.08

Anar al Infern


How is it to teach the one you adore to say "I love you" to another person? Or if you don't have to teach, to listen how he says how much he loves that person? And he knows you love him. He knows you adore him. His touch, his kisses, all is just a tease.

Then sickened by this sweet torture, you absorb yourself and yield in sin, more [or less] trying to simulate a shared love.

In moments like these you think of death. You think of a pathetic excuse to end the shame. But death is overwhelming. Life is powerless. And a smile come on your face as you still hope. And although the hope seems in vain, the door is left half-opened. There is no certainty.

Ahh, how easy is to ask for certainties. Something is certain only when it's dead. Nothing else is for sure. Not even what seems unbreakable.

This is a bit of the entrails of a sick mind. Madness. Disappointment. Retaliation. All is objective. Nothing concerns me. I am not me. Nothing here is certain. Or true. Or false.

There is no virtue. No vice. Nothing to hold on to, nothing to let go. Nothing you wait for, nothing you abhor. It is all invented. And counterfeit. And deceiving. You are a shadow. The body you had has been stained. You are but a dream. A nightmare.

There is no shame. It's all in your head. No pain, it's all ataraxia. No heartache, only failure.


No certainty. Only points of view.

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