I chisel my life.
Better.
I chisel my life, growing patience to achieve the goal that will make my life meaningful: I want to be The Saint.
I have always felt different.
Better.
I have always felt different and inadequate compared to you, to the others. To all of you.
To be The Saint implies the choice of a journey to give a sense to my pain, or rather to dignify it as the main and due instrument to achieve my goal. To tear the flesh apart, to tear it off, to bleed dry, to splash around in my red and finally calm the pain, living it to the bone. It is not the proper way to deal with it, they say, but I feel it, deep inside.
Better.
I feel it so deeply that it turned into a vow. My pierced Sacred Heart, now I pierce it with a purpose.
“They” told us that Jesus Christ was God’s only-begotten son. They lied to make us believe that he was the only one who could perform miracles, he was the special one and we are cruel persecutors to be manipulated through guilt, for ever. Every human being is therefore God’s son, which means, logically, that the Divine lies inside every human being, which means that people can do anything, they can do unbelievably astonishing things.
Every human being descends to Earth to make a change both for his personal evolution and for that of the World. My soul’s evolution, in this life, implies that I am The Saint.
So I sacrifice myself, swearing that nobody else is going to have my battered heart. God, Jesus or the man of your life, what’s the difference anyway? And I don’t mind to bring this vow with me in my next life, it’s the same to me, I do not care. In another life I will decide how to get rid of it, not in this one, in which I belong to you only.
Better.
I belong to you only even when I try to tell myself that I can choose a man to replace you. You, who are not able to want me as much as I want you.
Better.
Who are not able to want me as much as I want you because you are a mean, a coward, a superficial, a grower of the self-centred need to feel worshipped. And you will, you will be worshipped by me, in a sense, although I am not in the least interested in letting you know about it.
The force of my feeling for you has created a telepathic bridge to tell me where you are and what you do, your thoughts, when you are late for work, your worries, but you have never felt anything about me.
And yet I am yours, only yours, I belong to you, you who don’t want me, who have never wanted me.
I might as well be The Saint, relegate my heart to a vow where everything makes sense, even you, in my tears, in my head, in my heart, in my battered bowels, cleaning out viscous black liquid that I lick in every drop.
I will die like The Saint and I will be laid down in a crystal shrine. I will be beautiful and adorned with jewels, like I have never been in my whole life, I, who have always chosen black to wear a refuge.
I prefer all this, after all.
Better.
I prefer all this, after all: to give up watching myself in order to heal, and organize this life giving up any vice, as The Saint must make vows.
All this for You.
Better.
All this for You, poor bastard that I love.