A LITTLE FEATHER ON MY HAND

For some time now I have felt a ‘presence’ while I cook. I can’t explain but I know exactly who to connect it to. It makes me smile because if it were the thought of who I think, it would be quite strange. I do not have a good character, which is much worse alas, I am quite drastic when I decide to say enough, I rarely go back, men know that I am difficult, they consider me a piece of non-malleable granite. In fact, I can’t blame them, it’s better to give up someone like me, yet I haven’t always been so hard and adamant, I have a past as a ‘puppy looking for a master’. I wanted to be loved, like in fairy tales … stupid exactly like this sentence. The men I met made me realize that fairy tales are a collective deception, that princes and princesses are unlikely characters and that all of us, male and female, are just lower and sometimes very mean beings. Love is exploited, often used as the perfect shit gift one can get, the perfect rip-off. For love we do a lot of bullshit, we dress with good intentions those who have none at all. And so we find ourselves inside apparently wonderful stories, but that to see them like this, it is only us. What does this have to do with ‘presence’? It has to do with it because in 2015, while I was on the new social Tsu, I came across a very enigmatic man (eh I always fall for it!), Named P., he had a nickname that I loved mondomagico and who wrote wonderful things. I had met a unicorn, finally in the middle of nowhere! I put a lot of the things we said to each other here too, parts of chats and private messages, I also came to read on thce chat because my writing about ‘us’ made him happy. He was meditating, he had a sculpted physique, a beautiful voice with an Emilian accent and a top secret job, which I still don’t know about and which I will never know. We dated ‘virtually’ for many months, then things fell apart because too much mystery stops being fascinating after a while. I’m not the type who remains a thought, I want to become presence if, as they say, things are becoming serious, so the moment I feel a reticence, a deliberate lengthening, I tend to close the relationship. ‘If they don’t want you, don’t offer you’ is rule No. 1 now on my basic scale, so I told him we were fine like this, each in his own world. Too bad, I really liked his sweetness: he was able to hug me from afar, always making me feel his presence. And it makes me strange to hear it again, like this, after years. In the end, I hope he’s fine … better than me.
Then the problem is not that there is no hope, it is that there would be nothing to hope for. Who among you can say you know this sense of irrelevant vastness of the world – I wish I had better words to describe it – this closet world, stacked things, bad pyramid under which the dead sleep unhappily. For years I have said to myself: the trick is to find a moment of acute pain, which lasts at least half an hour and it is done. If you start thinking about it, if you let yourself slip into the phase of emptiness in the stomach, of the perpetual squeezing of the heart, then it becomes impossible: life has its tricks, it is on you like a blanket of tiredness, like the working day for workers , then you go to bed and sleep and wake up and you’re still alive and so again, like an absurd vice. I think it’s been a year since I last hugged someone. The intolerable semantics of tenderness – this too is difficult to explain. A year has passed, the exams are back in high school – you haven’t returned, despite Nietzsche. My waist is light and awaits the wind like a feather on the back of my hand.

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