LavĂnia
plalace
- Feb 19, 2024
- 148
I feel bad today. I wrote this text in an act of desperation, feigning lucidity, and sent it to my friend; we haven't spoken in a while. I sent it by email because I deleted his number. I haven't received a reply yet. Was it strange? Maybe it was very strange. I tried to be sincere; if I could always be sincere in this strange way, I would be so happy. Life would be so beautiful.
--
I like to erase things, sorry to say this here, I deleted your number. There are few things of mine left in my closet, my face isn't in books, on my clothes, or on electronics. My room no longer reflects my face. I can't sleep, even though I'm very sleepy. My cheeks tense up, I clench my teeth, and I feel a growing urge to close my eyes tightly, even though I'm not sleepy. You don't have to read this, I'll be happier if you don't, actually. It's not a suicide note, actually. I abandoned everything, I threw away the things I liked, I erased... actually. People, memories, objects. I don't remember what I thought yesterday, I don't remember what I did today. I wanted to paint expressions honestly after thinking for so long without talking to anyone. It's been so long since I said what I think, I break the words into small parts that I don't know how to express, and everything is fine, everything is fine. I'm very scared.
I see three floors, concentric pillars on a pizza-shaped axis. On a vast night. On a dense night. On a night day. In the vastness of the darkness. They move, expand and contract. They fix themselves on the straight lines and edges of the grass tips. Frightening, the sustenance of something, image of the dwelling of the heavens, in three images, not singular. I saw a clay pot open its mouth, in contrite frictions, creating waves of knowledge in acts of destruction of its being. After syllables, face warmed, shards on the ground. Its guts? Its tongue and trachea? So many pieces of clay, is clay just clay? Of appearances, is it frivolous to pick sand and give it a name? Frightening, sand has a name, smell, color, temperature and compassion. Sand is human, disgusting. So disgusting. Acerola eyes, fig lips, ivory teeth, grass eyes. The evolution of a wax face into a New Year's instrument, a singular shot in the dense iris, in the sea of emptiness - behold an imprecise light.
In the delivery corridors, images of sounds, sayings, and shifting times radiate. Rhythm, music. You talked so much about living an honest life, what is an honest life? What is being honest? I thought life was will, a stone isn't alive, it lacks will even with its permanence. What is being honest? Sincerity, harmony with something? Maintaining desires? More desires? Will is blind, it searches, it keeps fighting, it lies, it dissimulates, it thinks absurdities and catastrophes that not even ten devils on Walpurgis Night would have discovered. Am I sad? Am I happy? Simple and routine agony, without poetic content, without meaning or depth. Without narrative.
If there's a package of wax and a clay pot, in the middle of the dry contraction of wicks, the purring of glory, it needs to have an end too. I don't know what to write anymore, my eye hurts, I don't know why I'm writing. I regret so much. Living is great. When you said you feel a strong desire to live, so much so that you're afraid of the opposite, I thought it was different. I thought the fear of things not having a conclusion, of these constant changes that almost always destroy and deform the things I know, made me incapable of living. I think I was wrong, I'm afraid, I'm so afraid. I'm afraid, but living is great. I don't know if I'm being sincere, if this is honesty or a linguistic cliché, saying what you think without building or detailing. Writing is great because it's like lying. And I'm very good at lying, that's my greatest skill now. When we talked I said my skill was teaching others, a lie, I'm terrible. I know how to lie, I know how to hide to avoid everything, to hide from eyes. And I'm getting bad at that too, because to lie you have to be consistent, you need continuous effort. And I've given up on so many things, that effort seems strange. I think that's all. It's good to talk. It's good to know what to say. It's good to be honest, is that what it meant? To live an honest life? Did you give that up? There were many things I accepted as truth, and I never questioned why, or what they were.
--
I like to erase things, sorry to say this here, I deleted your number. There are few things of mine left in my closet, my face isn't in books, on my clothes, or on electronics. My room no longer reflects my face. I can't sleep, even though I'm very sleepy. My cheeks tense up, I clench my teeth, and I feel a growing urge to close my eyes tightly, even though I'm not sleepy. You don't have to read this, I'll be happier if you don't, actually. It's not a suicide note, actually. I abandoned everything, I threw away the things I liked, I erased... actually. People, memories, objects. I don't remember what I thought yesterday, I don't remember what I did today. I wanted to paint expressions honestly after thinking for so long without talking to anyone. It's been so long since I said what I think, I break the words into small parts that I don't know how to express, and everything is fine, everything is fine. I'm very scared.
I see three floors, concentric pillars on a pizza-shaped axis. On a vast night. On a dense night. On a night day. In the vastness of the darkness. They move, expand and contract. They fix themselves on the straight lines and edges of the grass tips. Frightening, the sustenance of something, image of the dwelling of the heavens, in three images, not singular. I saw a clay pot open its mouth, in contrite frictions, creating waves of knowledge in acts of destruction of its being. After syllables, face warmed, shards on the ground. Its guts? Its tongue and trachea? So many pieces of clay, is clay just clay? Of appearances, is it frivolous to pick sand and give it a name? Frightening, sand has a name, smell, color, temperature and compassion. Sand is human, disgusting. So disgusting. Acerola eyes, fig lips, ivory teeth, grass eyes. The evolution of a wax face into a New Year's instrument, a singular shot in the dense iris, in the sea of emptiness - behold an imprecise light.
In the delivery corridors, images of sounds, sayings, and shifting times radiate. Rhythm, music. You talked so much about living an honest life, what is an honest life? What is being honest? I thought life was will, a stone isn't alive, it lacks will even with its permanence. What is being honest? Sincerity, harmony with something? Maintaining desires? More desires? Will is blind, it searches, it keeps fighting, it lies, it dissimulates, it thinks absurdities and catastrophes that not even ten devils on Walpurgis Night would have discovered. Am I sad? Am I happy? Simple and routine agony, without poetic content, without meaning or depth. Without narrative.
If there's a package of wax and a clay pot, in the middle of the dry contraction of wicks, the purring of glory, it needs to have an end too. I don't know what to write anymore, my eye hurts, I don't know why I'm writing. I regret so much. Living is great. When you said you feel a strong desire to live, so much so that you're afraid of the opposite, I thought it was different. I thought the fear of things not having a conclusion, of these constant changes that almost always destroy and deform the things I know, made me incapable of living. I think I was wrong, I'm afraid, I'm so afraid. I'm afraid, but living is great. I don't know if I'm being sincere, if this is honesty or a linguistic cliché, saying what you think without building or detailing. Writing is great because it's like lying. And I'm very good at lying, that's my greatest skill now. When we talked I said my skill was teaching others, a lie, I'm terrible. I know how to lie, I know how to hide to avoid everything, to hide from eyes. And I'm getting bad at that too, because to lie you have to be consistent, you need continuous effort. And I've given up on so many things, that effort seems strange. I think that's all. It's good to talk. It's good to know what to say. It's good to be honest, is that what it meant? To live an honest life? Did you give that up? There were many things I accepted as truth, and I never questioned why, or what they were.
