2011: A Retrospection
December 31, 2011 2 Comments
Do not leave me… alone.
It’s… black… all… over.
Loneliness doesn’t mean a thing. You may live with someone, or even have kids, yet you’d still be alone. I’ve been alone… and many more like me. We live alone, we’re born alone. We die alone. Alone. Always alone. And even when we fuck, we’re alone. Alone with our flesh. Alone with our thoughts. Alone with our pleasure (or displeasure) — an impenetrable tunnel, impossible to share. Life is like a tunnel. And to each his own little tunnel. But at the end of the tunnel, there’s not even a light.
… and death opens no door. Death isn’t much of anything in the end. We make such a big deal out of it. But up close, it’s nothing. A body without life, nothing more. People are akin to animals. You love them, you bury them… and then it is over. There is nothing to be all mushy about it. Yes, nothing. Even our memory will fade as we near our end. Old people know that. A little life, a little savings, a little retirement fund… and then a little grave. All all of it for nothing. It’s all useless.
And the older we get, the lonelier we are, replaying memories of a self-destructing life. Yes… that’s how everything in this world goes. Everybody bides their own cash. Everybody bides their own steak. Nobody else’ll do it for us.
Filial love doesn’t exist. It’s a myth. Our mother, we love her as long as she gives us milk. And our father when he lends us money. But when her breasts are all dried up and his pockets are empty, all that’s left to do is lock them up in a nursing home before they cost us too much. Let them croak in silence. Let them die alone. That’s how it goes. The law of life. Children pretend to be nice only when there’s some fortune to inherit. But when the inheritance is a measly fridge or a broken-down teevee, it’s not even worth pretending. Or when necessary, just enough to buy a good conscience, we phone once a month, shed a few tears when they die, and our duty is done.
Love, friendship. It’s all bullshit! Childish illusions to hide the fact that human relations are nothing but cheap business. Friendship and love suits us, but in a calculating way. Reality is much more venal. We love our mother because she feeds us and prevents us from starving to death. Our friend because he gets us a job that feeds us to prevent us from starving to death. Our fat old wife because she cooks for us, empties our balls and gives us children to care for us when we’re old and afraid to starve to death. But hit any of those kids just once and he’ll get even with us when we’re old. In fact, that slap is exactly what he wants — it’ll be his excuse when he throws our sorry asses in a nursing home, or worse, out in the streets — a mask to hide his innate disinterest in caring for us.
Man comes with a reproduction code written in his balls, which we all blindly respect. Stop wanting to reproduce and you know your time on earth is over. Come into the world. Eat. Wag your bone. Give birth. And die. Life is a big void. It always has been. It always will be. But no, no more. I want to live my life as something personal, something intense. I do not want to become just an interchangeable cog in a huge machine anymore. The day of my death, I want to know that I have done more than the same crap done by a shitload of groveling morons. When it comes down to it, any asshole’s done what I have done. I don’t know. I’ve got to find a reason, whatever. Anything to make me want to hang on for another 20 years until I die.