Pieces: Chapter IV (Thoughts drunk, variations on the theme and digressions)
[...] [4] - 23:07:08, notebook
so long that I do not write ... The excitement of a new book, hundreds of blank pages to fill, and alcohol accumulated at three passes in the night: why we wanted to make me start again? They are sweating, too much for the dance, and perhaps smell, who knows, I do not have consciousness of my odors or smells, like the protagonist of Suskind's Perfume I have not even smell anything, but certainly I have a fire inside that is not and only one alcohol is a fire burning so many things together: a great desire that together make the same burning flame.
In this period of silence so many things, and none have happened. No special event, no unexpected encounter, no auspicious or inauspicious incident has radically changed my life. Rest of the same place, with the same job, to say the same sentences with the same doubts, the same indecision. A story in summary of what was then a few months ago does not differ too: indeed, in essence, would be the same story, always the same story building. Happiness at times and uncertain future, and it is always the case, it seems almost a universal rule that still applies. The script does not seem to change, but change the photo, the secondary characters, the scenery seems to have something different despite the apparent immobility. Above all, there are new variations on the theme, and new digressions.
Variations on a theme: change the girls but the result does not change, as there was a transient property. Human relations and knowledge of various kinds and types, no significant innovation. The interpersonal difficulty is the same for 25 years, and exceeded it seems so far away. The mood then it is always so variable, cheerful look drunk bitterness Leopardi all shades and ragging are possible even within a few minutes. Only with myself, as always, I'm bored, I do not have a book to read maybe a girl who eat the brain, an uncoordinated dance music or shouting up to running out of the lungs. Well, I am still me, neither more nor less, useless to hope for something different. Waiting for Crypton, have not Clark Kent turns into Superman, then oh well, in this case was the opposite, it is known (cf. Kill Bill vol. 2), who plays Superman is degrading to Clark Kent. What it is: they are always away from both. I live my life in Paris in the middle of uncertainty, without any future program, while imagination as much. Super-doctor, super-tramp, publisher or apprentice sorcerer's apprentice, then everything changes, there is no role for me in the cast of winners, perhaps one of the beautiful losers, if there has been something beautiful here, in my day in my life so anonymously. Most
digression that instead I programmed in this life so devoid of plot were days in Morocco, the apotheosis of everything that contemporary phenomenon called tourism these days I will briefly, very quoting elsewhere, in another time. Of course tourists from these regions have not changed anything in me, no experience of life has handed me a different, new, to our old (and much loved by me) West. Too little time, sure. And too many attempts to fuck me money. I come out more skeptical than before, I had not even taken into sublet the barrel of Diogenes. But the taste for travel remains strong, and the desire to move to other places, this insatiable hunger for new places to see, still is. Even the digression Nouva after all, refers to old needs.
The old and new, in the end, I sides of the same false coin. Where falsehood is inevitable, even in things: past and future are so close together, but this is changing in every situation, and is now passed, there is almost as past and is therefore useless. Maybe I'm just drunk thoughts, but it's worth to get them, put them in black and white. How much instinctive joy every time a thought flows, overflowing even, good or bad, and incalanaliamo within the banks of these white sheets. Writing is the only true satisfaction that the world can still give me after I did so as the nature are psychologically very fragile.
Speaking of what is past, and sometimes remain as present, the future seems to call to find their own dignity, maybe even through which can be conditioned. I have lots of future ahead of me. Infiniti, maybe. There will be one that satisfies me? Maybe my best I have yet to build the future from a better present. Year after year, this is such a better future, for now, and never becomes the present. I convert almost too irrational to eschatological beliefs.
Only dreams keep me satisfied, and even more ...
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