I smell the stench of your darkness, your perverse looks, your bloody long tongues and your sharp claws that tear the light. You are worms that crawl to eat the soil you have beneath you. Humanity has nothing good and only a facade to get something in return. The true human soul is made up only of darkness that envelops the entire planet. I see empty people with no will to live. People who lose days of life without wondering why they die inside. Inside they have monsters that devour them and as soon as someone approaches they tear them apart to rob their soul. Life is a continuous devouring each other without even anyone noticing. We are beasts that devour everything and everyone in order to survive. A battle all in our heads that is amplified in the world.A stain contrasts with your whiteness. It is black, black bewilderment, black disgust. Some would barely notice it, others would not consider it at all. I, on the other hand, can’t see anything else. It is there in the center of my gaze, I try to eliminate it but I cannot because it is sticky, it has stuck to you. I have dirtied you, defaced you, I scarred you. You, so beautiful, so innocent … How can I still look at you the same way? How am I not going to think about that scene turning in my mind like a restless beast? How will I still feel your hands, your body? It happened a while ago, but for me it’s like it was today. The disgust makes me tremble, the disappointment makes me close my eyes. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you, it was just to try, a game, nonsense … Nothing to do, these excuses don’t work. I try to keep an open mind usually, tolerant, understanding. This time, however, after she heard you speak, she curled up on herself, like a piece of paper that burns and slowly chars. I just want to curl up and forget everything, and then open my eyes and find it was just a dream. Because this memory is so strong, because the disgust is so intense, because … I am cold inside and you are in sleep and you are still dreaming about that day.
He looks at her with the eyes of love. And she doesn’t see, she doesn’t understand that she doesn’t make sense, she doesn’t have a purpose, a dream, an aspiration, nothing. Nothing is what you hear. No past, heartbeats, breaths, monotony, do what you have to, make them happy. The look that from time to time rests on what is “normal” but which for her becomes more and more distant, unattainable, almost inconceivable. The present is no longer anything, the warmth, the beauty, the sweet scents have arrived. But nothing always remains her, so eager to resemble her childish fantasies, so hopeful and yet so dry and dumb, cold and empty. The desert doesn’t want flowers, does it? It makes them thirsty during the day, cold at night. The desert welcomes passing guests, but then lashes them with its storms and hurries to erase their footsteps. He doesn’t want anyone, the desert. Or maybe yes, but he doesn’t even know how to manage himself. Hot, then cold, storms, comatose calm. He is furious with himself, he is disillusioned. He thinks that he will not make it, when he has to spread his wings and fly, he will realize that they are made of paper, so thin as to be transparent. He will realize that the imagination is just smoke. And it will fall into the void.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 