I am blind

All beautiful things come to an end. At first, the situation is idyllic. Summer roads and open-air afternoons make the hearts grow fonder. The fools love each other, they are ready to say anything to the other to attract his favors. Repulsive lies are uttered to reach a few seconds during which salivas mix. At each "I love you", the lead screed thickens, and the risk of escaping unharmed is annihilated. The meadows must endure the pitiful naivety of lovebirds who come to look at the stars, who would have themselves preferred to die millions of years ago rather than be the spectacle of these unconscious beings.

Fortunately, it never lasts. Souls return purified, swept away by the pitiless flames of reality. The mind gets clear. One then spends hours prostrate on the ground, in a puddle of tears. Love was only a substitute, a cowardly way of hiding the unbearable character of earthly life. The bitter taste of disillusionment burns the throat, the heart is sick, it spits a black liquid that irrigates other organs with its viscous paste. The process of decay is initiated.

The interior is putrefying slowly while the exterior displays a stunted mine, reinforced by the pain of an uninteresting, repetitive or physically exhausting job. Sadness and jealousy spread like a tumor. The mood is agonizing, and so is determination. No more sport, gallant conversations with colleagues with side ponytails, evenings with a couple of friends, or even the walk of the dog.

From now on, the apartment is covered with excrement. The dog helps with it since his master no longer walks him. The latter does not even have time to think of the poor animal that survives in his home as best it can. Nothing more than his sadness matters to him. He cries on the sofa, urinates on old photographic prints testifying his last story (before the big jump in the void). Sometimes even, he masturbates while imagining all sorts of "unfortunate accidents" that could hinder the happiness of his dear half.

He could enter the house where she lives with her new lover, wash his head with buckshot, tie Madame, cut her into little pieces, or enjoy his senses one last time, using her lifeless body now incapable of refusing his advances.

What about the kids? Well, they may end up prostituting themselves, or working as cashiers in one of those immense and inhumane glass palaces, the temples of consumption. After all, they have their mother's face, so their happiness or their misfortune has a totally nil importance.

One day, everything changes. It's time to get up. Get up from what? No answer, so this questioning is camouflaged by insane resolutions leading to nothing: a well-tidy, clean room, the adoption of good habits. All these efforts are carried out with the aim of obtaining the pity of an umpteenth partner of weak morality, for whom these habits have no meaning, except that of another epoch which the present climate has ensured to make disappear.

The aim is no longer very far. Now I just have to pretend I exist. I must promote this nonsense that is my existence, the uselessness that my body represents, the non-being that I am. My past experiences have no value, and they bring nothing to my future. I scream desperately for them to come to devour me, as if I were the victim of a spider, trapped in its immense web. I'm like an unconscious child who would swallow a gasoline jerrican, or like Isaac Newton a few seconds before he plunges a needle through his eye.

We will have other children whose lives will be as toxic as ours. We are the pioneers of this new atrophied, sick and rancid civilization, this one-eyed humanity in which my penis dictates what to do and what to think. Really, this woman seems to be ideal for me. We will love each other, and the cycle will continue.

(2017)