What is this agonizing feeling of not-belonging and not-living? It is not absence. It is matter.
A hole in the chest, consuming me alive [or dead — there's no functional difference anymore] like something chewing without teeth, slow, insistent, intimate.
They say to leave the holes alone, let them be, but how not to feed what feeds on me?
The hole won't leave. It drains, gathers itself in layers, and returns — always deeper, always more damp. With me, unfortunately.
A storm that won't break, trapped beneath the skin. Ice driven into the nerves, fire circulating thick in the veins. They don't cancel out. They coagulate.
Merging my pain and my being into a single element, I would become irrational [if I'm not already]. If I were, perhaps, a horse, I would be black and my name would be Transmutant. I would behave well and badly simultaneously, would be the best and the worst without warning. I would be untamable and gentle, mare and star, in whatever space they give me or don't.
— Wretched! terrible emotion, feeling of not reaching, agony of living without seeing, or breathing. Something that fails to sustain itself alive, but insists on not dying.
Nothing in me fixes enough to rot in peace.
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Here is a labyrinthine piece of text, which took me days to bear, only in the imaginary — the ostentatious fiction I carry in my head.
"What if I'm a vampire?"
Recently I've been questioning and refuting this same question without respite. Throughout my life, which isn't much, but weighs and shatters, I forced myself into roles I cannot sustain.
I still try.
I maintain myself in this very tall architecture, where no one can enter, I make myself unhappy out of dread of asking for comfort, horror of my addiction to coziness.
Once I met up with a close friend, I was terrified, incessantly tormented by my thoughts.
Our meeting was friendly in tone, yet I focused on the possibility of saying something.
Saying something. Anything.
In all our moments together, I thought: "I beg you to say something, just something, don't leave me alone, don't cling to solitude, say something."
For god's sake, I just wanted a hug.
I gave up on the idea, returned to my house, in the end I was washing her dishes and playing a round of guessing games, I thought I'd wasted time, I always dispossess myself of it.
The truth, which I don't know exactly what it is, but I'll affirm that it indeed is, out of pure stubbornness, is that I feel like a creature of darkness, a parasite, a curse. The typical "bad thing," that thing they reference when "you know that person who sucks your energy?", maybe I am, merely, a void. I walk too thirsty, clamoring for a conjuncture, an abundance, something to be poured into this bottomless hole.
I believe I'm a burden, I also believe this subject has been excessively used, I believe I'll discontinue this writing soon.
See, however, the unsustainability of my behavior. Through the macabre belief of being a leech, I carried myself like an object — without setbacks, oppositions and/or holes. However, now (I refer, directly, to the period when this text is being written), I feel I've become a real freeloader.
I opened the lid. I made myself shadow. I am unbearable.