Shades around the birthday candle

And into a common afternoon, when no one is watching, I will drink my last shot of whisky, I will draw my last line, I will paint and say “it is done”.
The line will be cut. The stream will flourish.
And I will finally have a carved smile.

I will miss my flowers and my trees. I will miss my silvered light and my bricked-wall thoughts. I will miss my bravado and my arrogance. I will miss believing that someone really uphelded my thoughts.

It is my wish (yet what is a wish in an ill-ridden life but a call out to the universe to lay the knife deep)
that I am spared of a longer life-span
that I am spared of hopeless projects
that I am spared of parenting and tradition and mortgage
and that I am freed either by death or by stable anonimity
while radiation engolfs us all.
I tried not to become the monster I am: I have the mind of the middle-class male, 5’11 and frustrated smile. And for that, I’m sorry. I will always be sorry. I hope that one day, someone will be able to make sense of the things I never could, the love I never showed, the humbleness I didn’t had.

To aspire for beauty and complexion, and comfort. This is my greatest sin.
To be loved. To be appreciated by the eyes that I wear and not the skin that was given to me. To be held accountable not for my sins, but for my many heroic actions hoping one day, I’d see my seed turn into a beautiful flower despite the estrangling.
To be bold. To be brave. To become better than mousy men. To roar. To stand up for myself.
This has come to be Guilt in my lifetime.

Death is like my pretty little own cave, in which I want to rest every single day.
Death soothes my thoughts and no one sees it sharply. Death caresses me when I feel sleepy, when I feel a toothache, when I see the desperate attempt of the people to evade the inner workings, when I see the greyness grow on the people I grew alongside with, Death loves that I like fruit and animals and crystals and mountains more than humans and doesn’t judge me, she cracks flowery tattoos on her ribs and smiles.
Death is gorgeous. Death is beautiful. Death is simple, and sweet, and never makes a promise it won’t keep. Death will never tell you that she loves you and then rip out your heart because you had the bad luck to have the face of the rapist people forced you to call “dad”. Death is the power above the broken mind, flying high above the landscape of the broken citizenship of the new millenia.
This has come to be my reality about Death.

So fading markers and little glasses: everyone can be happy and smile, because you kept The Fucking Machine working. Yet how come I’m the only one who sees the world and realizes this is just punishing? How come I’m the only one who sees the battle between two worlds, in which one innocently thinks the other one will allow it’s evolution to become so? “The only way Homo Superior is to walk the face of the Earth is by threading upon the grave of the Homo Sapiens, Bobby Drake.”
They told us this about the birth of a Real New World… didn’t anyone absorbed this letters in printing? Weren’t we a Comic&HipHop OneWorldNation?
To me today birthing can only happen within oneself, and birthing must happen when you can handle the structures it spurs within you. It start cannot be forced on you, and it shouldn’t be imposed on you. And birthing spurrs and imposes the survival instinct, yet for all its allegories and metaphors,
not a single teardrop or sweatdrop can modify the sweatshop machine that posmodern parenthood has become.
Birthing is useless in a world in which everyone I know happily runs toward the spit pool on the ground of Kowloon, or in the fashionista mafia of Moscow… even the one swam across by the jumbo-sized rat in the sewers of New York seems cuter than the fresh personal, gem-like power of one’s own fountain. Marketing, that’s all.
Only the path of the Buddha can heal it, but, do we really want to change all that? Can we really accomplish to rise above the stickiness and comfort of the old bedding, the old running mill, the wise-cracks? Can we sire crystaline beings and not digital zombiefication?
Pain. Pain. Pain.
This has come to be my reality about Birthing.

Its atraction creates a hole inside reality, in which you throw rotten teeth, or broken trusts, or even misguided Wise People Advice. And then you make do. Somehow, things manage to grow inbetween. Like a sip of ayahuasca, it throws into the pits of gorgeous pictures and horrible soundscapes. You, my friend, you crave for more.
Love is a powerful force like gravity, yet love is mistaken by something else because of our own lectures, issues, garden weeds.
This has come to be my reality about Love.

*b l o w *

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