Days

I used to remember those days with a decadent longing, as if there was nothing standing in history in between those days and the cronic selection of past reviews and faces that had crossed my sight and that had endeavoured themselves concomittantly in my newfound skin. I wouldn't be sure about the title I'd give to those encounters, to those cold blocks of feelings and mountains of agony that succeeded in intoxicated the sweeping veins of my intellect; nothing necessarily magnificent, never superfluous and far from contemptuous. The burning smoke that separated our convalescent postmodern and young humanities with a screen of biffurcating fogs that would never disappear, or at least not until the morning stroke with endless reminders of what had been a licentiously successful life and the odes of a modernity that we could have foregone, had we wished to do that. Sweet mellodies and queerly infatuated voices surrounded the piles of newspapers and unpaid bills until they reached our ears and found me just too young and unwise, remarkably beautiful and bitterly happy. That's how those days found me, older than I am now, older than I'll ever be. Wearing incesantly the moral burdens of a dreamer, abstracted in the deathly anatomy of unfathomable smells, of pathetic smiles, of unavoidable redemption, an assassination of the intellect.

Days that were just like today, preposterously inserted in the agenda of a political man, of an activist, of a freedom seeker, of a man in search of moral adjustment. And those days in their shape were no different than those that I've lived since there ever until today. I had read the newspapers in the morning and had been busy on the phone, giving myself the proper importance that a grown up man deserved, disinformated enough as not to notice the helplessness of modernity and the emptiness a man causes to himself, when he doesn't stare at the sky, when he doesn't meet up with stars, when he forgets his anomalous condition. I had planned life a few too many times that day and had criminally chosen to control my life, despite myself, despite lusting for higher pleasures, for a stoppover along the way, for the comfort of the fool. I had carelessly made sure not to seem just too happy, not to look through all the glasses, made sure to undrink my coffee, to soak my job in a dream, to control my words. Problematically efficient, ineffeciently progressive. That's how I found it.

I still don't forget that day, not the trousers I wore and the dreams I thought, the strikes I endured. The different loves I hoped and kept in store, the discurssive maneouvres I led through, the songs I drank, the glass of wine I thought. My dream would live itself through my flesh, and then disappear one day, just like morning comes when twilight knocks. I wish no longer that life, when I was all so grown up. I lust no longer for the opinions I seeked to uphold, for the endless sets of practical knowledge I stored, for the books I read or the men I loved. I think no longer of the days when I touched the sky with my hands.

I just dwell on those delicate pieces of self that I left untold. I dwell on the room where I never lived through, on those dreams that never came, on the words that were never words, on the futures he refused and no longer spoke. I'm not sorry of having loved that filthy touch of silk, and those vulgar glasses of wine, those movies I understood, those uncovered bodies I never touch. I'm not sorry for myself, I'm younger these days. I've kept it all held in store, for maybe one day I'll need those yearnings when in the highway or when painting the walls of a new home. The saddest skin I ever touched, the books I never wrote, the days when I never came home.

I'm happy I wore those years, as to enjoy adult love. Opinionated enough, infatuated at all. I'm glad tonight I'm home, finally alone, maybe the world will not last until tomorrow, but the TV is on.

Ari