On a story (Part II)

‘And yet, here I am. I’ve been here for years, right in front of you. What have you done? How have you made the impossible happen? You’ve done nothing. The fact that you see everything makes it even worse, because you’re in a position to attempt to conquer what you claim cannot exist. Instead you have become a magician, performing one disappearing act after another, as if to show that you’re impervious to my Medusa-like idiosyncrasy. 

How are you not a coward, a hypocrite, a child? You refuse to even let yourself be hurt by something you self-proclaim as worthwhile. Even in that regard you opt for the cheap version of pain and loss and passion. A watered-down albeit safe entropy that are human relationships. 

If you consider the fact that out of all the people you meet, interact with, and fuck in your life, only one (if that) will be your companion. Every single other you will eventually have abandoned, hurt, regretted, loved, screwed and made happy, in vain. 

That’s what we believe failed relationships to be, don’t we? A waste of time, effort and bodily fluids. We falsely believe happiness to be a continuous process with a beginning and an end. We consider it to be linear, consistent, attached to a person, a place, a condition that we will one day find, immediately recognise, and hold on to forever. 

We are fools. Happiness only belongs in moments, seconds and minutes; maybe hours if we’re blessed. It is fragmented, chaotic and unpredictable. It comes in surges and leaves with the tide, slowly, calmly, unalarmingly, smoothly, as if to leave you with a remembrance by which to recognize it when it reappears. Nothing is in vain, not the way we have defined it in order to pardon ourselves for the things we did not dare to do. How did you then not deprive yourself of even a single moment of happiness I could have given you, one that you would have in fact given yourself?

I demand too much of both myself and others you said. My question is why don’t you? Why do you put up with irrational bullshit of people who feed off the perversion of total possession and enslavement of individuality and render you eunuchs enthralled, but refuse to go a single step forward towards something that could potentially amaze you? If only for a moment. 

Because you also perversely feed off the fervour to be consumed, absorbed and possessed. You give yourselves away and then claim to be empty. You drain yourselves to the point where there’s nothing of you left. And so in every relationship you are simply a mirror, a reflection and a desire of what your idol claims they want, until the desire fades, as it always does, and all you are then is someone’s discarded cupidity. 

Instead, what I want is you. But you have nothing to show me. 

A door is ajar. A window is cracked. The room you used to inhabit is dusty, mouldy, dark, and depleted. You’ve lost yourself. You’ve disappeared into the souls that only ever wanted you for what they could make of you. A fistful of clay; never a complete work of art.’

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