In a moment of absolute cowardice, always one, I propose to do so. I just hope I get to share the shame with someone or I'll be lost. It is a premeditated cowardice, worked and matured for years but that does not assure me of mutual recognition or forgiveness. This is my testimony awaiting all the violence that you can give me.
Before reading on and regardless of whether you like it or not, I would recommend that you stop reading and run. Run, reader, run because our nature expresses itself with flight, it is narrative, and reading, on the other hand, is evident.
If you read, sooner or later, you will want to defend yourself because everything you read, to a greater or lesser extent, is written by cowards who at the time did not dare to flee and who will only let you ask these two questions: 'Is reading the most repulsive act of submission? Is the book the very object whose beauty and perfection serve as a gateway to the devil himself? '
In my case, I write to starve you and the industry does not tolerate that. The industry does not feed on your hunger but on your reading and the revolution. That is why I fear that your escape will never be conservative enough to achieve the necessary consequences on whatever it is we want to take down. We will continue reading to be able to continue supporting the hierarchical structure that gives meaning to all of us. Reading is a murderer, and of course macho, although I don't think anyone takes it for granted since to be able to read you need to be a macho or murderer, logically.
But the worst is not that, the worst is that we will continue to be haunted by the frustrated dream of not having achieved an isolated and sick childhood, personality or condition that would give a little luster to our writings and murders.
Someone has been changed on the battlefield. The target could be my own ego. This is a frequently used strategy and I suspect what this is about. There is no problem nor no enemy and I only have the resource of accumulating the resentment, fear and cowardice necessary to be able to know how to ask the wrong person for forgiveness.
The contradictions are inevitable, infinite and precious. Life does not have to be contradictory but the truth has to have that possibility. For this reason, what you read is not what you think. I still do not know where I am going and I still cannot claim that I am lost because I know that I will arrive on time.
As I was saying, our ego is possibly the biggest strategic mistake of our time. The ego is out and all this idiocy that corrodes you is mine.
Beauty, if you get close, you will see that it is only the fruit of imbalance and disease. The reaction to an aggression that we call life. Nobody in their right mind wants to grow up because such a thing does not exist except in the sick and wounded will of the other, of the sun and the moon. The only thing that can give reality is love. Plants and birds know that, the first thing they do is turn reality into an idea in order to die.
We need to abandon the dire need to create. This is devouring the young as it is the only way it remains for them to traffic over time. Time dictates only two basic forms of creation. One, related to the origin and which the most honest thing is to leave it quickly. And the second way, which does not exist, is this which you are reading. It is about putting enough talent to do what you do worst and defying destiny forcing it to tell you who you are. Your talent is prior to yourself and is more like the truth than the origin. That's why you always betray it. Talent is always a political and gender issue and that is why talent always leaves us with no options.
I think if the questions are overrated it is because the answers are not bold enough to the extent to be murderous. I have been haunted, for a few days, by a brilliant answer about you and me. I want to record here my willingness to abandon it by giving it a name, making you flee, fighting, imagining in the most artificial way possible, far from what you read that it serves me too much.
There are so many things that make me sad. Philosophers debased by philosophy, always with their smile. Poets, always believing that there is something more important than what they do, without being able to believe in their mistake. And the believers, always with modernity in tow, capable of publicly renouncing their faith rather than sharing the burden of such a cross. These penalties are not unfortunate, they are not prohibited, that is why they freeze everything we say.
The focus that has been placed on me forces me to start each day. That is the feeling that is sometimes confused with the morbid instinct of wanting to touch God or with the feeling of constant sexual harassment or with my embarrassment on behal of the others to build something of my own or with the need to feel guilty. As long as we use the words to say yes to everything to dad, we will not take the focus off ourselves.
Now that you begin to understand what it is about, now is when you hear the hiss of the bullet grazing your head. It is not something natural but the worthy shot with the necessary force to sustain you in time. A shot which does not allow me to project myself, that does not understand any of that, a great opportunity, a new possibility of you.
A shot that has to return, desperate and brief. A shot with the violence of the spirit of a child that empties your eye sockets of all futures certificated, they say, by one shot.
That silence you hear is the hiss of a shot, written with words and readings that lie and are useless, that need us. The only problem is that you are never the one who shoots since when you shoot you irretrievably move away from the victim where everything becomes confusion and relief. Indeed.