Thursday, January 7, 2016

You are, will be and have been.

- ... Please Sir, could you help me?
- Help you with what...?
- ...
- Yes...?
- Can't you see?
- No, I can see but I'm not seeing anything that you might need help with.
- Oh, I thought it was all over my face, especially in my eyes. I thought you could see it on my breath...
- ... hum, wait just a second and I'll be back in a minute!

Another one that left me alone. Feelings and things out of the normal frighten most people. How many people are called crazy because they can sense a bit more than what is just palpable. Most of my Life I thought it was OK, but I'm getting tired. My soul is tired. If we live only to get hungry and eat, only to go to work and get money, only to have relationships and "dis-have" them and then one day, for the same no-reason we're born, Life ends... then why bother?

Yes there have been many joyful moments, memories that I keep and smile about, and there is still much that can be done, shared, created and loved, but when we're tired, nothing seems to have that much importance.

Why do we feel? Why do we search for deeper meanings? Why do we need more touch, more listening, more caring, more seeing beyond our sight? ... Why do we have whys? ...

- Excuse me Madam, could you help me...?
- Oh, of course, what do you need!
- ... you, I think I need you.
- Sorry? ...
- ... I need you to see me.
- But I can see you... are you alright?!
- I don't know. I feel disconnected from you, from this street, from this wallet and the cards that seem to prove I exist. I don't feel I exist. I feel disconnected.
- Oh... You exist. We're having a conversation. I exist. Here, hold my hand. Feel how it's cold. I get cold hands too easily. But I've knitted a pair of gloves! Where are they...? Ah, here they are! They keep me warm. And I've knitted a pair for each of my children. I can make a pair for you too, would you like that?
- ... ah, no need.
- So what do you need?
- To be seen...?
- But I see you.
- To be... I need to be.
- ... To be or not, that was the big question... Poor Hamlet, he did not have it easy at all, but Art rescued him, didn't it? He didn't know if he wanted to live or hand his life to God, but the unknown made him keep searching. He kept searching for the answer to that question. What is not to be? Can we not be? We're always something, even if just a little speckle of dust in the Universe... I think we always are, will be and have been. You can't choose not to be, it's not in your hands. You are. Here's you, here's me, here's that person and the other. All being. That's why we're also called beings. From the smallest bug to the old gone dinosaurs, we're beings. So be my sweetheart. Be. To make everyone else life's easier, be good. Choose to be good. Choose Life ...

"Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin can openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life: I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin? (...)
People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shit, which is not to be ignored. But what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid. At least, we're not that fucking stupid. Take the best orgasm you ever had, multiply it by a thousand and you're still nowhere near it.

- So my dear, choose to be, for the pleasure of it.

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