Do you realize how the garbage is being passed from one to the other? I don't blame you or criticize you. I am exactly the same as you, yet I reject you. My emotional intelligence only makes me cry for myself. I want to impose my judgment on others, I don't know, it makes me feel good I guess, the world is too hostile a place to leave mine and accept other truths and if not, at least tolerate them. I wonder how much of a coward I am? Is this erratic way of acting perhaps a manifestation of a deeper fear, but what is this fear, is it even possible to recognize it, is it the fear that vanity feeds, or is it my mother's blows that terrify me?
I try to let go but I can only bite, let go of things let go of the soul let go of the body, let go of a fart, let go of my limb, let go of my feet off the ground even for a moment, but it's too late, it's too late and I must sleep, I must sleep with the mediocre consciousness of progress that gives me enough peace of mind to do so. Imitating poetry. The best thoughts come when it is very late, when the stomach burns, when the pain finally ceases and only the uncomfortable anguish remains, the one that floats all the time everywhere, for days like today the uncertainty of the next rains that may never come again will fill with sadness the hearts of the children I do not have, and I go mad.
My hands used to be the anchor to the world, now I no longer recognize neither the world nor the hands, the phenomenon of this land is complemented by schizophrenic stridentisms, where acting becomes a thought and a lie a sacred law, where shopping malls are the new temples, where acquiring a credit is more reasonable than demanding justice. Insults and contempt.
Sexualists dangerously obsessed with their sex, naive racism, tyrants from the soul, discriminated that discriminate, bourgeoisie without culture, middle class without emancipation only reproduction, wealth without style, poverty that violates itself, bleeding the weak of the weak without offering or sacrifice, beware of letters in cancerous prose like this one, disguising humanism that is buried by the plains of a broken and dusty city of cocaine and illicit walls, like this one.
I hate nights like today, when remorse is vivid, as if sins materialize in an invisible body that sits next to me to keep me company amidst nostalgia, emptiness and guilt. It watches me, with its ridiculous invisible gaze, and it is there while I destroy my conscience with putrid concepts and my body with medicines, without saying anything, like a bad friend. How to stop the damned inertia of an exile of the soul that does not know how to respect because it does not know how to do it, nor where to begin to fix what is becoming deeper and more obscene?
Photographers: Dennis Schnieber
