I am yet to find the one that comprehends me the most. I thought I had found her, in all her apparent wisdom and beauty, the simplicity of how she saw things and how she read me, as if a book I were on her hands. A veil it was, a masterful one, to mould me and shape my soul at her own bidding, a well laced attempt at manipulation, messing with one's mind, taking advantage of the many endless flaws that render the walls of my soul weak and frail.
At last I managed to be honest with myself, months after the shadow of the puppeteer has gone away, and ask me what do I really want from life. And in asking this, I have but discovered a few things, which lead me into more and more questions, some that I fear I do not want answered. My professional path is obvious to me, but what about the other paths that lay before me? What about my inner self? What do I want to do of me? These are the ghosts that haunt me everyday ever since I wake up, that side-by-side walk with me the streets of this chaotic city, that whisper in my ear when I least expect it. What am I to be. . . ?
I see examples of what I want to be, everywhere, the stereotype right in front of everyone to see and adore. I see it when I read my favourite books, I watch it on TV in those fashionable series of the present day... But, by work of a phantom that I've yet to discover (but that in reality, doesn't live anywhere but inside my mind) I cannot fathom achieve it. Would it be the same as achieving perfection, I can scarce get my hands around it, grasp it even with my fingernails. A mirage that is unreachable at the range of me arm. No. My (our) nature prevents me to be what I want to be. So all that remains is to be what I am. What is that, do I ask any of you, any of who has been, for the answer is unknown to me.
The biggest, and probably the primal reason for it, reason for which I cannot reach my utopian vision might be the fact that I worship too much the creatures from Venus, those wonderful and yet so lavishly deceiving creatures that attract and dumbfound the minds of men. It all became with a wish to worship what was Beautiful, the intrinsic beauty of the objects, the sceneries, the people, and it all ends up by sexual attraction, that overcomes every other sense, all the other Ideals, that obliterates even who I am. I cannot express myself when in presence of such beings, for they steal from me my Reason, the whole process of thinking first and acting later, in account of the pleasure of their sights, their touch, their voices, their odours... It is as if I am enthralled by them and anything else is reduced to a corner of my mind, apart from the world. It is them who guide me nowadays, even without knowing it, they who steal my thoughts. And in thinking this, I say to myself "You're weak willed and a misery of a man. Unworthy of whatever spiritual level you might want to achieve. You are just another man. Just like everyone else." If only I could become blind to their enticing physical seduction and concentrate my efforts on observing the world as a whole... To get rid of that mundane feeling and to look upon them with a clear sight and clear mind...
All my life I've attempted to be me, to be something unique and unmistakeable, to build away my own world, to place myself where no one has ever been placed. I fail utterly at this. The scent of a woman drives me out of it as surely as a candy does a child. I'm raw on the inside, yet to mature, yet to gain the immunity I need to resist this urge to worship, to appreciate, to love....
And that is what I miss most and what builds this immense hole that I feel and which consumes me even as I write this. I miss the love. I miss the caressing touch, the passionate stares, the forgiving words, the protecting heat.... I am incomplete and I cannot find the missing link, the piece that will make me whole. The thought of it shades my heart and threatens it, turning his potent beat into a weaker version of itself, bringing the joy of life to such a trifle that is barely worth noting. I am not given the permission to love, even the love of friendship is constantly denied, driving me into my cold loneliness, of which I am unable to leave, unable to fight against. A man with so much to give, with such a need to be given, and no one to receive nor trade the feelings. It is dreadful. It is worse than Death.
I used to find haven in reading and in music. The times have changed now. My spirit craves more than that, the haven has become too tiny for me to use it and it just pains me the more I try. The music confuses me and brings memories of which I sometimes don't want to remember. It recreates past moments, past loves, things I had buried in the cemetery of my own garden, only to be exhumed by these lyrics and mesmerizing sounds. Cursed and yet so blessed they are. And in literature, my sanctuary, it is where I see reflected my feelings. I cannot stop reading, yet I can not see the reflection of my own suffering in those words, as if I had become the characters of the story and the story was not theirs but mine!!! Oh, sweet terror that assails me, not even in simple pleasure can I find peace!! Has my mind forsaken it forever? Oh how I wish it to be a lie, a mere lie.
I find small fountains of hope in some friends, in my pets, for they are closer to Mother Nature than they know. I see them as Her sons and daughters, the ones that make me feel one with her. Yet, the moments of freedom out of the bubble of loneliness are short, almost unseen. They make this bubble more and more unbearable as it is, only increasing the craving to have someone come and rescue me. I fear that if it isn't done soon, I might die inside, turn a stone cold rock without feelings and unable to rekindle as the phoenix. I have, however, no one near me who can do it, for this forsaken city is filled with people unsuited to me, whose natural spirit has thoroughly been substituted by the artificial spirit of the modern civilizations, that unkempt thing that drives humans mechanically to their own terrible end, amidst their doomed civilization. To Hell with them and their machinations!
Ah, and all in all, like Marius before me, I've been living a lie. The most perfect lie, for not even its maker knows he's lying. The beauty of it... Lies entwined and braided together, separated by fine threads of life only to be rejoined and linked and knotted together... I've been the most sincere liar I've ever known, specially when telling the truth. The paradox is delightful yet sinful. I ought to change my title to The Deceiver. It would suit me better, really. Who better to be it if not the one who can deceive himself, constantly?
There is Light, oh yes there is. A tiny light that wanders in the horizon of thought, alluring with its warmth. But only time will bring it nearer and that Son doesn't let himself be ruled by any other. It will pass at his own pace, no matter what happens around it. And I wish I could be like it. . .
At last I managed to be honest with myself, months after the shadow of the puppeteer has gone away, and ask me what do I really want from life. And in asking this, I have but discovered a few things, which lead me into more and more questions, some that I fear I do not want answered. My professional path is obvious to me, but what about the other paths that lay before me? What about my inner self? What do I want to do of me? These are the ghosts that haunt me everyday ever since I wake up, that side-by-side walk with me the streets of this chaotic city, that whisper in my ear when I least expect it. What am I to be. . . ?
I see examples of what I want to be, everywhere, the stereotype right in front of everyone to see and adore. I see it when I read my favourite books, I watch it on TV in those fashionable series of the present day... But, by work of a phantom that I've yet to discover (but that in reality, doesn't live anywhere but inside my mind) I cannot fathom achieve it. Would it be the same as achieving perfection, I can scarce get my hands around it, grasp it even with my fingernails. A mirage that is unreachable at the range of me arm. No. My (our) nature prevents me to be what I want to be. So all that remains is to be what I am. What is that, do I ask any of you, any of who has been, for the answer is unknown to me.
The biggest, and probably the primal reason for it, reason for which I cannot reach my utopian vision might be the fact that I worship too much the creatures from Venus, those wonderful and yet so lavishly deceiving creatures that attract and dumbfound the minds of men. It all became with a wish to worship what was Beautiful, the intrinsic beauty of the objects, the sceneries, the people, and it all ends up by sexual attraction, that overcomes every other sense, all the other Ideals, that obliterates even who I am. I cannot express myself when in presence of such beings, for they steal from me my Reason, the whole process of thinking first and acting later, in account of the pleasure of their sights, their touch, their voices, their odours... It is as if I am enthralled by them and anything else is reduced to a corner of my mind, apart from the world. It is them who guide me nowadays, even without knowing it, they who steal my thoughts. And in thinking this, I say to myself "You're weak willed and a misery of a man. Unworthy of whatever spiritual level you might want to achieve. You are just another man. Just like everyone else." If only I could become blind to their enticing physical seduction and concentrate my efforts on observing the world as a whole... To get rid of that mundane feeling and to look upon them with a clear sight and clear mind...
All my life I've attempted to be me, to be something unique and unmistakeable, to build away my own world, to place myself where no one has ever been placed. I fail utterly at this. The scent of a woman drives me out of it as surely as a candy does a child. I'm raw on the inside, yet to mature, yet to gain the immunity I need to resist this urge to worship, to appreciate, to love....
And that is what I miss most and what builds this immense hole that I feel and which consumes me even as I write this. I miss the love. I miss the caressing touch, the passionate stares, the forgiving words, the protecting heat.... I am incomplete and I cannot find the missing link, the piece that will make me whole. The thought of it shades my heart and threatens it, turning his potent beat into a weaker version of itself, bringing the joy of life to such a trifle that is barely worth noting. I am not given the permission to love, even the love of friendship is constantly denied, driving me into my cold loneliness, of which I am unable to leave, unable to fight against. A man with so much to give, with such a need to be given, and no one to receive nor trade the feelings. It is dreadful. It is worse than Death.
I used to find haven in reading and in music. The times have changed now. My spirit craves more than that, the haven has become too tiny for me to use it and it just pains me the more I try. The music confuses me and brings memories of which I sometimes don't want to remember. It recreates past moments, past loves, things I had buried in the cemetery of my own garden, only to be exhumed by these lyrics and mesmerizing sounds. Cursed and yet so blessed they are. And in literature, my sanctuary, it is where I see reflected my feelings. I cannot stop reading, yet I can not see the reflection of my own suffering in those words, as if I had become the characters of the story and the story was not theirs but mine!!! Oh, sweet terror that assails me, not even in simple pleasure can I find peace!! Has my mind forsaken it forever? Oh how I wish it to be a lie, a mere lie.
I find small fountains of hope in some friends, in my pets, for they are closer to Mother Nature than they know. I see them as Her sons and daughters, the ones that make me feel one with her. Yet, the moments of freedom out of the bubble of loneliness are short, almost unseen. They make this bubble more and more unbearable as it is, only increasing the craving to have someone come and rescue me. I fear that if it isn't done soon, I might die inside, turn a stone cold rock without feelings and unable to rekindle as the phoenix. I have, however, no one near me who can do it, for this forsaken city is filled with people unsuited to me, whose natural spirit has thoroughly been substituted by the artificial spirit of the modern civilizations, that unkempt thing that drives humans mechanically to their own terrible end, amidst their doomed civilization. To Hell with them and their machinations!
Ah, and all in all, like Marius before me, I've been living a lie. The most perfect lie, for not even its maker knows he's lying. The beauty of it... Lies entwined and braided together, separated by fine threads of life only to be rejoined and linked and knotted together... I've been the most sincere liar I've ever known, specially when telling the truth. The paradox is delightful yet sinful. I ought to change my title to The Deceiver. It would suit me better, really. Who better to be it if not the one who can deceive himself, constantly?
There is Light, oh yes there is. A tiny light that wanders in the horizon of thought, alluring with its warmth. But only time will bring it nearer and that Son doesn't let himself be ruled by any other. It will pass at his own pace, no matter what happens around it. And I wish I could be like it. . .
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