Life is an abandonment, when memories linger in the abyss of the gaping hole that is the human memory like ghosts that cannot be exorcised by the light of dawn. When the breath reeks of mouldy alcohol, when thoughts are emancipated from the painful bounds of reason, when straight lines become twisted like the tormented boughs that are the arms of the prisoners of Abu Ghraib, life becomes an abandonment.
Life is like me now, when I can hardly open my eyes, when my stomach was belching incessantly because of something I ate or drank wrongly, and when I still decided to down a full glass of wine despite declaring today during the judging round that I do not drink. I think I am close to indulging in my own narcissism, in my own foolish belief that my body will not break under the weight of my soul. The wine is a promise I made to myself. I needed to drink it before I went to bed.
I know not any more what my speech means, what the words that chain my thoughts are, and what my fingers that dance on this black keyboard make out. 'Tis just like the fiesty pulse of an old man who refuses to die, just like the dour petals of a flower that spring forgot to take away with it when she died after summer came. Wine does beautiful things; it makes you forget what you need to remember, so that you forget what you are here for, so that life then becomes finally less of a pain and more an analgesic. If life were nothing but chemicals, then life is joy, because then chemicals have no life of their own, and then life becomes predictable, becomes at long last that one thing that one can control. Alas life is anything but. Life, life is a poison that ends almost forever the bliss of lifelessness. It is that malady, that malediction the moment we come out of our mothers' wombs, the moment we are brought to believe that life is beautiful and happy. For life is about false hope and true disappointment, about death and deceit, about misery, malice and medicants.
I ramble like I drag my feet through the desultory leaves of autumn, through the pellets of rain that fall in October. I run through the spaces on this screen like the work that awaits me are hot on my heels like rabid dogs. I tire. I wane. But other than myself, who else will live with me? Words are only the audible froth that come forth from a delirious fool. The eye is twisted and the tongue is tied. The view is therefore contorted and the speech denied. What lies therein a mangled soul, but the gibberish of the world that thinks it so wise, so wise indeed that all die as fools and none ever more alive.