Epistola

Clarice, it’s either too clear for me or not clear at all. There are days in which I wake up feeling like I have reincarnated. I think “fuck, this is not my life, this is not my job, these are not my feelings”… but they are, aren’t them?
Giacomo, the joy of faith pierces me with its sharp sounds and leaves me to die today, just to resuscitate me tomorrow. Here I appear, in front of thee, wonderful world. Hell.
Woolf, there’s a bestiality in me I keep shackled in my veins, I twitch them, I smile, I watch them throb, I dig my very cave and no one knows, but our thoughts are our greatest gift and curse.
William, let me find the will to keep on flying to be ignorant when desperate, for only sheer ignorance can make me hope for the best, only it can make me calm down, open my sacred book on Psalm 91 and actually feel those words giving me strength. Dare I say, o Ignorance, you make me praise the Lord!
Dear Søren, the emptiness of your “O” has always fascinated me. I look down to my bellybutton, I swear, I tried innumerous times to press it and have myself turned on “happy mode” on “rich mode” on “goal achieved mode”, but there are more buttons in life, in empty “O”s waiting to become the “O” of the Latin alphabet.
Whoever, I wish I were speaking to God.