A long time ago, comforted by the idea of "destiny", by the notion of horizon that attributed to every clumsiness and every virtue, as if the footsteps, well or badly given, in itself all the heat marks on the asphalt, were an unequivocal of clarification for the ideal future, that the errors and successes in which stupidly or ingeniously incurred seemed to me an impulse completely removed from the viscera; nothing of errors, only a programmatic becoming in which the memory would be no more than a provisional accessory to endow a content sunk in the sands of time. What lack of elegance was, for me at that moment, to find in the vast programming of the Absolute all the fevers, all the intensities, a sort of apparently medullar, seemingly sanguine looseness; odiously immanent. An unfading weakness, even in the face of the sudden autumnal adolescence where, based on hormonal virulence, paroxysms are tacitly promulgated as dogma of those who suffer from the puffiness of the senses in front of the stratification of pleasure in jovial ages.
Soften the ego by disdaining his will; I did that. My existence, then, dissolved in those intestinal sighs; the flatulence. Tempering, perennially, bursts of meat, either lying on a couch doing mock infinitesimal or stain, unlocking the future possibilities of "guilt" So none of that was the will itself. I thought, prostrate at ease, a temporary individuation of the Absolute; thought that, locked in an untranslatable will for the psyche and the spirit, placed me as an individuation of the cosmic uselessness. An existence languished very early by leisure and apparent devotion to a "metaphysical cynicism." As or more useless than a Hemingway without his shotgun. Or a Bukowski without his bottle of wine. Or a James Brown without his neck. Bipedal futility.
It is an understatement to say I was used to that tacit nihilism; it was something stronger than habit or pathological dependence. It was like feeling the softness of the cotton wearing my body. It was warm temperature. I was fascinated by a single pretense: uselessness. According to what I believed, living without the burden of responsibility was a right rather than a rational one. Natural law was, by then, a harsh imposition of those who did not believe in "destiny"; the iusnaturalist "not only has rational rights but also rational responsibilities; rights that are holistic spring of nature. I was incompatible with everything: my nature considered it a biological sophism, a simple image without substance, a mirage of the sea; a simulation of mortality. I was an nihilistic. And the nothingness that reduced everything felt splendidly, the same as the orgasm in first-time lovers. The nihilist right was my post childhood and my first love.
Unfortunately, no love is forever. Today I know.
Very deep:))You would be very good as a writer Anyway nice work
How you doing, man. I apreciate your comment. Thx for the read. Yeah, who knows, maybe some day i'll be published ;)