ORANGE JUICE

I carry the loads on me. I place them on my back, writhing, to adapt them to the shape and material of my shoulders, and I walk around like this, crooked and weighted. I carry loads on me when I decide I’m too old to cry and slam doors. When I make important decisions without thinking and instinct leads me to superficiality and immorality: I leave under the pillow what I have learned over the years, on a mattress deformed by the lines of my loads. At night everything is waiting for me under the pillow right where I saw it last, and I dream of bloody hands. I carry the load of the blood that I no longer have and of my addictions, which today are the only useful support to remind me how I grew up. Addiction, the weapon with which I feel free to wander aimlessly in my prison, countless times. I carry the burdens on me with the experience of one who, in practice, has chosen to suffer.
Then, suddenly, the evening turned into night. Sometimes you don’t have time to notice, things happen in seconds. Everything changes. Are you alive. You are dead. And the world goes on. We are thin as paper. And nothing can be done about it. You can sit on top of a mountain meditating for decades and it will never change one iota. You can change yourself and get over it, but maybe that’s wrong too. Maybe we think too much. We hear more, think less. But you have a brain. You are not a human. You can’t crawl. Yet they crush you anyway. The power of words. If you write them and nobody knows you, you have no power. You have no power. You are like a snail. They don’t even talk to you because they know you’re not a ghost. You are real and the truth bothers you.

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