Hungry for Sincerity

Less than twenty-four hours make the difference between life and death, between choices and spades, between fate and strike. The post-mortem of a strife, longer than the life of a book being written and perhaps just as much pained. I cannot help the feeling of looking at those pasts as though they were lost forever, as though no repair or atonement was possible. But just as shamelessly I could say that I do not have regrets, because the choices were not as simple or as blackened but rather hued in between angry morning and tar-coloured nights. Days during which every sort of possible pleasure made the difference between being me and somebody else, between losing my sanity and recovering it for a couple of hours, or for a day even sometimes.

Two years endlessly trying to recover my pasts and my persona, and by detour committing more betrayals than one could count with the hands of a hundred people, so many of them as fall into oblivion. It hurts, I will never deny it. It is a stone in your shoe for as long as one has lived, it is a lack of repair and a restless nightmare. Those faces all pass in front of me today, this very morning as I feel myself shiver before the end of this chapter. Before being into the world again. I would have never missed these two years, had I had the choice to do so. Sooner or later I might come to regret it, even this afternoon as well. I might have strived so long for nothing, I might have committed all possible mistakes on earth only in order to see this day dawn on me, but I cannot think about that anymore. I cannot think about that world whereby I shall be so comfortable at home. I prefer the striving. The journeys. The lack of wisdom and excess in witty.

Those journeys in which I created worlds of my own, as a Semitic God only in order to destroy them all over again. Most of those worldly buildings were not even of my own liking, and they succeeded in displeasing me all the more, in destroying my speech, my manifold forms to translate myself into spaces and times. They blurred my history. But I carry no shame to this very day, I do not feel sorry for myself or anybody else. I only did what I had to do, in order to remain alive and to wear this caffeine-tanted smile that deliberately surrounds me. Perhaps I will never stop feeling guilty and feeding my disappointment in small bits of glowing anxiety. But I remained alive. I lived through the most intense years struggling with God, but above all with myself. Struggling to find out whether my limits had any working powers no more, whether I could bring myself to make the right decisions. Small everydaily choices in between potatoes and beans that helped me keep unwounded. The roads wound before me. I became mute and unable to move invisible spaces, unable to make real choices.

Life will take its share due of time, but as long as I can be eternal enough as to build my own worlds it no longer matters. I have different tools to look at myself. To loath myself. But it is not important. The worlds were at stake, when the chips were down.