I think I must be crazy, or have a short circuit in my brain; it feels like I can’t think in a right way, a way that guarantees any other destination in this life.
Taking decisions – any decisions – is a serious crisis in my life, so it feels like I’m paddling. I’ve tried, at least I think I’ve tried to edit my position, to lie down on my comfortable side, but where can one find a side in dimensionlessness? Failure echoes in the present and makes me tap deeper into my fragility. A psychological epidemic destroys my imaginary pictures of my self.
What can one do more than go on trying to live, though, since living is an involuntary daily activity that routinely robs us of our will to choose.
So I wake up every day carrying this box of contradictions about and trying as much as I possibly can to organize the mess. But I fail. A daily failure that reminds me of the greater failure of our existence. So I sleep on it, only to ironically try again when I wake up as if I didn’t yesterday.
I know I don’t have anything new to say, but repeating what can be repeated is the only way to emphasize nothing.