Is it only your body that gets old?
Inside day after day I feel smaller and more stupid, fragile and weaker.
Like a snail without a house.
Becoming slimy and loosing the freshness.
Dreaming not about the endless future, concepts and poetry but how to move, how to earn, how to smile and look smart, how to provide an image of success.
I am sorry that survival does not excite me. The poetry of pragmatics.
Im a sponge. I suck all the bad and save it for the sunny days. I enjoy sadness.
Yet can I afford it?
They tell me to be happy even when everything seems wrong.
Take chances, fail, seek for solutions.
Fake smiles and fake bodies, fake advice everywhere.
Relax.
Work harder.
Exercise.
Eat healthy.
It makes me eat fast, even if I don't like it. It makes me want to consume, just to be against it.
I want to build a sanctuary for sadness.
To protect it from extinction.
Like the Japanese wales.
And the bees.
And friendships.
Floods are everywhere. Floods of blood and floods of water.
I imagine waterfalls of tears.
Tears of happiness and tears of sorrow.
I want to cry. Cry from saddens.
Because saddens makes me happy.
Can I afford it?