Thanks, music
Somebody tell me why I don't want to go and listen to music until I run out of the world. I feel a weight in my eyebrows that I know well; I feel the warmth in my forehead and that I want to open my mouth: I feel that I want to cry and that I cannot. And if only for some ridiculous taboo. My impotence, rather, is intrapersonal: it comes from an unsolvable distance between my feelings and myself. I'm sure that, even though I feel that I enjoy music too much, there are people who don't have to make the effort that I have to make to enjoy it. My taste is artificial; indeed, it's pathological. Ask me when, in retrospect, I can say that my need for psychiatric treatment began. Simple: Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet. I guess everyone starts with him. And when did the silence begin to hurt? Or when did I begin to fall in love just because of someone's voice and, of course, hate the opposite? Sometimes I regret having met the music. I don't think I would know boredom.
Lack of light, boredom. And my light, which has been toxic, which is intoxicating, suffocating, incomprehensible; the light which scares me and makes me look like a moniker is precisely music. Thank you, music. Thank you for giving me reason to stay here. For you, thank you, for you and Donizetti's duet, I've had time to think a whole week. What would I do without it? What worldly thing -necessary- could I have done? What responsibility - proud - could he have fulfilled? How many people - enriching - could I have had a conversation with? But no. Pure little dead friends and a necrophilia and a dependence and addiction to beauty, to ghosts, and not even to beauty itself (how much cinema, how much painting, how much nature, how much courtship, how much family, how many conviviality, how much dance, how much theatre, how much exercise, how much silence I have, for you, sacrificed?), but because of a sick absence that I can't resolve because I keep looking for you in the heartbeat that I heard in my mother's womb. I guess they all start there.