Shorts

 Everything I do here feels like the last one. That's how I enjoy all of them. That's how the anger is kept on watch. The parties, the trips, the singing, the movie-watching, the cooking, the eating, the cleaning, the lovemaking, and the fucking, I should extend that philosophy to all moments, no exceptions.  But the more I stay, I feel like staying a little more. I forget everything that assured me to leave; I begin to doubt all the proof so concretely piled up heavy in my head. But the heart...  That's when he comes to help, stirring the muddy waters of my emotions, exhuming the almost faded, untrusted memories, and replaying the same chords on different octaves.  I feel lost and blank, in limbo; neither in the cacoon nor outside, but caught up halfway out, on its own sticky walls. Death is tough. Especially the kind where you are both the dying and the mourner. That feels like the most humanely painful thing for a self. It's a fresh hell for an empath: a volcanic ...

 Every single day I think I'm fine; everything is fine, and everything is going to be finer than now or some day or one day. But I am not fine. I feel beaten down and crushed. Something can go right out of all of these things in life! Some ray of light can shine on me. There is a possibility, but where the fuck is it? I am running out of air in my lungs and hope in my heart. All these things are squeezing them out of me, and you expect me to go on? Today, right now, I can't see beyond this wall. I desperately bang my hands on it, and the only thing that shakes is my faith; all that is cracking is my heart; all that is crumbling down is my hope.  Today, I am not fine. Today, I am broken and weak and on the floor lying, almost dying, drained of my creativity and my will to continue.  Today, I don't like this place I am at, on the road to infinity. But I have no strength, no flow to move. And tonight, the only creative thing I can do is to die on a canvas. 

 Do you know what I feel right now? Absolute fucking paralysis. All this reading, and writing, and editing, and proofing, and knitting, and painting, and drinking, and smoking, and dancing, and laughing, and watching, and listening, and talking, and walking is for what? To pass a moment? to pass a day until the next one comes and goes, and the next one and the next one and the next one and I don't feel no difference. If there is, it is so significant-ly-small.  All this accumulates to what? All this leaves me with what? Every time I look into this sad sack of shit I carry around, I see nothing but a few crumbs to barely move into the next one and the next one and the next one. Every day, I exchange this handful of crumbs for another handful again and again.  How the fuck did I end up here? A chain of little things leading me here and leaving me here with nothing to fill me. It never fills me enough to be worth carrying forward. I feel paralyzed, dying of hope. All this an...