La rage de soutenir que tout est bien quand on est mal
Sometimes the madness of the world cuts through the surface of the
tiny narcissistic space that is our centre of worry.
They call it perspective, and if there were any coherence at all in this place,
I would no longer be writing these emotionally crippled tales,
I'd stop playing with transcripts of melancholy that concern nobody.
Mine would be an entirely different life lived, if any of this made any sense.
I would live forever acutely aware of not being shot, of not being blown up
or forced to jump off the ledge hoping for something at the end of the ocean.
I would watch tearful movies about unrequited love and smile on the inside-
Hardly believing my luck, able to feel such deep sadness while risking absolutely nothing.
Hell, I would sit at the table as he tells me "It's over", and I'd still be laughing.
I'd look myself in the mirror and say Get a Grip!
and in a moment of relief I would let go of all the straws I've been gathering in this fist of relentless defense.
My heart would be wide open.
I would miss the morning train on purpose,
and walk miles and miles chasing footprints on the road, literally trying to walk in someone else's shoes.
And that would be everything. Trying to understand would be everything.
But life hasn't learnt about relativity yet,
how many millions of years does it take?
And, so, here I am
transcribing melancholy.
