So let’s take such a simple idea as the desire to improve, to become better. Is it a natural human instinct or is it the result of early conditioning? Crocodiles, king crabs, eagles, do not evolve and yet they seem perfectly content with their humble status. And many human beings enjoy a quiet existence without feeling themselves obliged to expand or develop.
So let’s say it happens sometimes you burst out crying without my knowing why. A libidinal melancholy. The kind of crying-fit where your rib cage tenses up, your whole body vibrates like it’s empty or wants to thank you for being hollow and useful for something after all these years, it’s about goddamn time, what took you so long? And let’s say you don’t understand anything about it, except that it’s convulsive and has to do with a lot of exaggerated confusion over a little bit of nothing. After all, what can a man expect from a world he isn’t apart of, knowing nothing of people except that he never will? What are the chances for someone who has already dwelled so far in the depths of solitude that even being with himself could no longer be considered company? So alright, more than once no one was there with you but Time, stirring up the dullest water. So she didn’t have the slightest idea what she wanted. Time, the old fuck, that surest and purest form of doom. A little bit of nothing, I said. A libidinal melancholy. What’s a tear, after all, but a kiss on the stake of Time that’s no longer there?