I feel moved in the inside once again, a constant movement and uneasiness, a longing and a searching for nothing comprehendible, but it feels urgent, it feels painful, and it feels delusional and conditional, as in reaching it will result in everything feeling different and certainly feeling better!

Thinking and feeling within time, time becomes the opponent of this consciousness, the antagonist in this dilemmatic story, it fuels the existential anxiety, the source of this unsettling feeling, the human mental suffering, of having a mind being trapped inside an animal, and having to commit to the both rules. The rules of thinking and transcendence, the ability to travel with thoughts in time, build scenarios and question realities, having ideals and yearning for perfection. And the rules of its animality, the mechanical urges, desires and needs, consuming and reproductivity, distraction and denial, repression, addiction, delusion and vulnerability.

It is a paradox, having been always said, and it will never be cracked. It is the condition of living, it’s the one and only offer available, and as long as I live I implicitly choose to take it, till the moment I don’t and then I won’t be. Because one simply can not set free, and when I think I did, I realize I only have been part of it, participating as I must, even if I lie and say I don’t, the lying becomes part of it, I lie to proceed, and I lie to reach a goal, and it is a goal created by the same machine that brought me the initial feeling of dissatisfaction, only to motivate me to survive, to reach a point, then witnessing the line getting prolonged as I get closer, drawing another point every time I reach one, thinking again it’s the turning point, till I reach it and know that I never did. With every time I sit down wanting to write and share some of me, it’s nothing but one of these points on the line, I think doing this will save me, will start something new, will make me like myself more, and others approve me, till I pass the point and find that I have reached nothing, I hate myself more, and hate others more, and I give up validation for misery, only till the machine re-charges, it gives me compassion and hope, and lies to me about another point to reach.

I feel small, longing for a whole, my body is crying for it, and my mind knows inside very well that it is all delusion, but it cannot speak it out, because it deepens the struggle, enlarges the gap, complicates the paradox more than it already is. It becomes harder and harder, the body wanting to be a happy animal and the mind insisting on seeing nothing but the truth, even if it’s ugly. It is addicted, addicted to the ugliness, to suffering, to pain, it feels alive this way. If the body wins I will become a dead machine and an unconscious animal, and if the mind wins I will withdraw existence, as the inevitable (dis)solution. For my life to continue, the push and pull has to proceed, whether I like it or not, however hard or unfair it was, however its frequency speeds up, feeling it every year, every day or every hour, as long as it’s bearable it will proceed. I lie to myself thinking I have control or a choice, but I know, and I am almost sure, that I don’t, and that my existence is in the machine’s control, and as long as the paradox can resume, it will. It has to. Survival is not an option, it is a necessity. Choosing death is not a choice, it is death itself. I feel like I choose it, because I am aware of the pain, and when I feel like it’s unbearable, I like to think of withdrawing, and I take my own life, but it is not my choice to not bear, because if anything I have a body for, it is for it to bear the pain. The body not being able to bear it means its dysfunctionality, its uselessness… its death.

With that, here I am, whatever I am, exclusively and temporarily, existing, only till the machine destroys itself, and with that the mind finally ceases reflection, loses its exclusive sense, its ego, its individuality, its ability to express, to say who it is. Exclusively it is giving you an opportunity to temporarily connect, to share our timely common humanity, to recognize your and my condition, to acknowledge the real worth of your and my temporary inherent worthlessness, and to offer you myself, and me yourself, through recognition and sharing, through common grief, with no promises of a escape or a change, but a refuge from the monsters of your self and from mine. As if I never speak it, you’ll forever feel alone with yours, and if you don’t speak it to me back I will always feel lonely and ashamed. And yet I have no option but to scream longing to hearing an unguaranteed reply, the sound of a similar animal with an ugly consciousness, always trying and always coming short, falling in despair and hopelessness, and feeling trapped in no-choice, wanting to live or die but unable to do both, screaming the melody of its pain, to me, the enjoyer of music.