Cursed

Life is easy.

It was, at least.
I mean, to exist – be,

inhale – exhale,
eat – shit,
speak – say,
work – pay,
touch – sex,
move – walk…. it’s really simple!
Or it was, at least.


The first time I witnessed myself break free of this cycle– exceed myself and at the same time bring ruin to myself, was at the touch of my imaginary hands into a imaginary piece of paper. It was just for a brief moment, just for a glimpse of a second that I knew– that I really knew,
“This is it!”.
But just after the first word was written down I came back to myself, and started blurting out pseudo-romantic nonsense.

Every single piece of writing I have done since then, was to get hold of it…  And I do!
Yes, it does not happen too often, but I do, I do get it. And when it happens, the things that usually matter to me, they just– don’t matter anymore;
Self, humanity, love, philosophy, religion, you, I, they….nothing!

As Dostoyevsky would say,
“My God, a moment of bliss. Why, isn’t that enough for a whole lifetime?”

Fuck. Life is hard.

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