You are soft. Full of spark. You will never be denied anything relieving. One more look, I don't get it. Dry. Denied. Tense. Circles, always these circles. It hurt somewhere behind the tongue. Concentrated. A warning, a thought, a fight, a feeling, a condition. Dissolved, excited, rejected. It was all in harmony. Everything was in chaos, impure, meaningless, smiling, silent. Dread. Not part of this moment, the head far from the body. Distance, a huge and a cracked facade that threatened to collapse, at any moment it could have happened. A path he couldn't follow but wanted to.
Yes he would. He hadn't made it too firm, the thought only crossed his mind a few minutes ago. He had been able to pull himself up, it would have been impossible before. His smartphone lit up. Dopamine. Stress. He hated it. He deviated. Rain. Stone. Glass. Metal. It was annular, reverberant and he loved it, it protected him, it was never silent. It would stand the test of time and become a ruin, overgrown with green breath that merged gray with that of the overcast sky. It was not far from war, shards and fear, the leaves seemed yellow although they were not yet. They rolled and made noise, it calmed him less than the gray did. The higher the bigger, the higher the deeper. The sight almost hurt, he could have cried for joy. He remembered a glow, not just one, thousands. He could have died of joy. Inorganic made him happier than alive. He had remembered the guard's scream, how could he ever forget it, the eyes like watchful slits, the teeth made of pure pressure. Shrill. Remote. The atmosphere seemed greenish, polluted, poisoned, drained. He wanted to go back to this place even though he had never been there.
I read, I lie, I suffer, I disappear, I'm gone, far away, too far, no, I'm still here, who has forbidden you to talk, who has forbidden you to live, who has forbidden you to levitate. One hundred little needles, gentle, they don't penetrate the skin, a third of my shoulder, something pulls into my back, it's the back shoulder, it's the upper back, it's not important. What is important. The universe doesn't care what you do, what you think, how you look, how many likes you have, if your crush has read your message and still hasn't answered you. The universe doesn't care whether your best friend is your greatest enemy, whether you have problems with your neighbor, whether you are sad because you are being dragged down by your surroundings. The universe doesn't care that I write these lines, that I write about myself in the first person, because I never do that, that I don't find any meaning. The only one that cares is yourself. How selfish.
He studied the previous lines carefully. It was different than usual. It read so differently. He hoped that it was clear to everyone that he was reporting on the problems of our modern times, the older generation would not understand. It wasn't even that accurate, it could have been deeper. He could also have... HIS SMARTPHONE INTERRUPTED HIM AGAIN. He could also have written about boring things that everyone complained about. Poverty, injustice, racism, hunger, religion. He would be writing about religion soon. There were some things that he didn't even list, they could offend some people. Actually, it didn't matter, but that's how he was, he had said it before, he wanted to please everyone, but by doing so he was only distancing himself further from himself. He would find his way back, soon, he was on the right track. And that wasn't just being said. He paused for a moment. Chaos. It was his own way of existing.