This is neither a confession, nor bragging in vain. It’s just a cold review, a list of my biggest enemy’s deeds. My purposeless failures. All the harm I know I’m inflicting to myself, and I keep doing so although I get nothing out of. Not even some sort of sick, perverted pleasure.
I smoke and, as the inhaled cancer fills my lungs, I wander why I quit so long ago. I dope on coffee, just to keep me wide awake while I speed over bumps and potholes, insanely turning each hairpin curve. I drink ninety degree black absinthe until the numbness in my arms and neck find tangible excuse. I get laid without any feelings attached, without reason, without care and without being able to enjoy. I overdose on sugar before abstaining from anything else. I run my sinews to exhaustion and my joints to arthrosis. I alternate nights of morbid wakefulness with excessive slumber on top of daylight.
And I know where it ends.
Some might say it’s middle-life crisis, others that it’s a kind of late age rebellion. But it’s none. I sense the harm and I’m not proud of this demise of mine. But I don’t really care, either. I don’t fancy, I don’t mourn. Just living the days without name.
I’d call it systematic, slow suicide. But I think it’s better to kill my flesh than kill my dreams. It’s the path of self-destruct where I roam my steps, lingering to contemplate the results. Passionless. Lucid. Maybe with a hint of disgust.
I’m no longer the same; and I know where it ends.
(03 mai 2018)