Castigated, cast away. That is what this voice is telling me. Listening to its words, I lose my sense of reality. Unavoidably I sink into its charm, letting it convince me that indeed nothing that I do is worth much. Months have passed and I feel the same sadness that I felt the moment I was born. I cannot forget just what it was that made this way, this hideous way, this grotesque way.
It is very hard to conjure clear paintings, mental exercises. My health has deteriorated and I still cling unto this madness that I call my life, as if I will find magically that very luxury that I have been longing for all my life. Happiness. Felicity is a stranger to me, a myth that I have heard about from a very early youth and always sought to explore and find. And all the fairy tales that have been read to me when still lying in my cradle, and all the wonderful laughter I worked up and shared with whoever was willing to listen. But who endured our message? None. Because if they did they would now see that I have been a false prophet all along, a liar and devious wicked monster.
I am an octopus that entangles all around it in its tentacles. I am that very reality that fairy tales try to elude. But no, that they cannot, for I am a reality that exists outside their phantasmagoric world. I am an opaque entity, one that cannot fit within their demarcation and delineations.
Months passed and I am still at the beginning, only attenuating the frivolous state of my mind. I am unable to move about, to free myself from all my convictions and modes of thinking. Thinking itself is a mischievous whore. All are mischievous prostitutes. I am the biggest one. Let us enter this new adventure so we can educate man about man. Yeah right. All along I was after the Whore. All along I wanted her to touch me in sweet spots, to arouse me like none other. But by the time I have come to regret it, all I feel is regret.
I write to escape, to run away, to create what is left of me, so someone, one day, a moment long away, ahead of me and I am unable to catch up, just realizes what the hell was going on at the last days when sanity tried to make a comeback, but ultimately surrendered itself to the lunacy prevailing the end of the 1812 rhythm. Yes, we are falling into oblivion and none shall hear my voice, for my voice is not heard in scorched symbols on a lightening liberator.
All is Well
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