N + 63 : it's almost the end of the year

N + 63 : it's almost the end of the year 

It is the end of the year. I eat crisps while I try to remember the shape of your body. It has been a while since I have kissed you. I miss it, I miss you. We will probably never kiss again and it makes me sad. Just a little bit. 

But it is enough talking about you. Let’s change the topic, switch the meaning or the subtitles. I want to talk about myself. Me, myself and I. I should be the centre of the stage. Not you. It is weird, isn’t it? We are taught to learn not to see the world only as rotating around ourselves. But now I want you to unlearn that and re-learn how to put oneself (myself so) into the spotlight. It is not about showing yourself. I am aware that there is some introvert among us. 

What I mean is just that you have to be your own spectator. Value yourself, love yourself, send yourself flowers and treat yourself as you would treat a lover. Clap your hands, make noises, envy it and feel it. Those days we hear a lot about those voices, about self-love and self-treatment yes, yes. So you all, already know what I am talking about? 

But it seems that it. Is. Not. Yet. VALUED. ENOUGH. 

So I will continue until I have forgotten the lover I am yearning for and forgot myself. So in the end, the only thing that will remain, is the emptiness standing on stage. The theatre of metaphors and feelings, with no spectator left (it was only you remember? Dissociating, one the stage on the one hand, and in the audience on the other). The spotlights are on, while you are off duty. 

You haven’t done anything, it’s not my cup of tea anymore. I gave you the opportunity. But I will give you another one. I whisper while you are dreaming about a better world. Indeed you can have as much as you need, of opportunities, just pluck them from the trees of promises.

I am no one, I am just the shadow of the one I loved once. No, not them again. 

I don’t exist, I am fake, I am not a shadow of the loved one, because fuck them. I am your shadow, some inner voice, invented from every part of belongings and trash that were abandoned on the streets of the place I travelled in, of the places where I lived. So many of them, soon I will not be able to recall. 

I take picture of the trash that touches me. I call it visual poetry. Am I a poet? I would like to be one. So I decide to be one. Because, since I am nobody, nobody can tell me what to do, nobody knows me, nobody will judge me. I am free. Free until the internet dies. Until I end stocked and stuck in some Data bank on the Antarctic, which just as a reminder, makes the ice melt (is your heart melting too at this point?), and is responsible of  climate change. We don’t care enough. 

So stop everything, disconnect yourself, burn the laptops, the smartphones, change your way of life. We could all resist, but we only decide to exist. In one way or another. 

And also don’t do that, stay in tune and connected. End this would be the only way you could kill me, shut my voice down, throw me away. So don’t. Anyway, you won’t. 

You want to know who I am. You want to know the rest of my story, of your story, stay in tune, keep in touch with me, follow my in my daydream and silly fantasy. 

later that day: 

I don’t age. I stopped ageing. It’s the sadness of my soul, I was told. Some find this sadness attractive, yes yes. I assure you. She told me that night. She also told me she wouldn’t kiss me because she was afraid of offending my intelligence. Who says stuff like that? Don’t worry it’s all a lie, I invented everything on this page. Maybe not the climate change though, and not the urgent need for change and recall.