The one with a heavy heart|
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Years after, I wrote something on paper. With bare light, in a dark room. In that very same room I wrote a play called Equation with another writer. In that same play I wrote of a cactus. That cactus is real. It is molding, and whilst molding it is simply covering itself into a white pellicle. Soft pellicle. Large table covered in crumbles and books. All chairs different. Fallen curtains on the ground. Trails of a television set on the wall. Clothes drying everywhere. They are shrinking from the warmth of an electric fireplace. And the pellicle is shrinking. And I am covering myself.
Everyone sees a representation of me. And it is not conscious. I am not lying or hiding my reality. I truly have a moment. A momentary aspiration. The idea of a good life. And that is all. Everyone sees the idea. And I see its fulfillment. I see the holes. The lack. The persecutions of a self-delusion. As I progress, it becomes worse. I have regressed. Unless, of course, the more perfect the suffering, the more perfect the organism. Then, I am perfect. To become calm, to choose, to live, to be within; what are these?
What are these?
It is a terrifying realization.
When you are a cactus that does not require a lot of care and water, such a realization is nothing. A pointless menace, the echo of my laughter. Emptiness and loneliness seem characteristic, beautiful and sublime.
But, gradually, I became an atypical cactus. I have started requiring tender care and water. And I have covered myself into a white pellicle. Now, I am pale. Pale on pale. A cactus with requirements. I wish I could hit myself in the face, but I would most likely just stab myself into the eye and damage the pellicle. Emptiness and loneliness are a constant threat, now. The echo of my laughter; I laugh because I calmly went mad.