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N + 65 : The very end of the year


N+65: the very end of the year 

It’s the very end of the year. We faced so much. This and this. Progress and regress. I still hate my reflection in your eyes, but I love myself more than I used to. Thanks to you, thanks to us, thanks to the world that surrounds me, the ones that are still here, there. 


Voices have risen. What does mainstream mean? What is the very good taste, how to keep a healthy way of living? Stretch your finger up to the moon. Answers will flourish, be patient, yeah, yeah, always and forever. It’s a singing voice running on a screen. I was told, again and again, I shall practice to be good, to be better, to be great, greater than I am and ever was. As those words appear the very truth comes into matter, you are enough my dear, stop pursuing some silly ideal you don’t even hold. What you have is enough, to please yourself and to please the other. 


I hate critic so much, I would prefer to die than to show my work (not even evoking myself). You are useless. So I hide, to be sure, very sure, no one, ever, criticize my way. I kill my thoughts, my creativity, the very core of myself, due to the fear of existence. What a misery. What a miserable plan of life. No expectation. No future. No tomorrow. No perspective. No bounding. 


Loneliness and tears, served as dessert, while I am in some intense intercourse with my own thinking. We fuck so hard I don’t even notice the reflection is broken. I cut my genitals on the potsherds. Something else appear. Behind the glint, the void of consciousness. It is the writing that comes to matter, after all. Something has risen and is born of the emptiness of my heart. 



It’s time to accept vulnerability.



Foolish hope. How could I go further, after what we have not yet lived.



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