Fade thoughts

A bland thought, so accomplished…

To tell the truth, I have not lived long, but the little I have seen of the world has satisfied my curiosity and my thirst for knowledge. My thirst…

No, I prefer to write: "was enough for me".

It's true, you're quickly disappointed by what you see. I was lucky enough to see it for only three days...

I was born in Paris (we don't choose the sidewalks of Manila either...). Simply. Stupidly. But not ideally.

From the moment I was born, I breathed carbon dioxide; the kind from cars, the filthy, the nauseating kind, not the kind from trees! Besides, that's all I've ever breathed. I've never breathed air, real air, the kind you breathe in the provinces, on the green hills of the forgotten heights of the world. I don't know it, and I died without knowing its flavor. Does it have one? Or is it just finer, clearer, more deeply alive? Less acerbic, but acidic, less overrated?

Less defeated?

Does it exist?

It seems...

I didn't really live three days. I survived. Survived...

Survived, old ass.

Anyway, I shouldn't have been born here, at this time, in this place. I think it's just a joke, a bad joke, a gibe...

Mine are elsewhere.

But I fought all those three days. For whom, for what, Jo? You whom the flowers lulled with their wandering in the snow and in the blood...

Forgetting your enemies.

Forgetting the time...

I can still hear the cries of the dogs, their footsteps pounding the petals of dawn. I still suffer, despite everything, thinking back to the joys of the meantime.

I beat those dogs, fought their shit, ran from their droppings, and then finally, breathed their footsteps.

And that was the worst.

That's not what killed me. No, not that. That's nature, the real, the pure, that rotted me, but that in this hell of asphalt dug down to the sap of my soul.

No, what killed me was him, Him, the Other. Over there, with his funeral pomp...

From far away but not far enough... The Other.

The Other...

ASSHOPPER!

No. The one who killed me may not be an asshole. He may not be just an asshole. All I regret is not knowing where he was going when he trampled me. Was he a righteous man, an innocent, an animal, or was he a Man (with his big axe, once again)?

I died without knowing. Like Man, who dies without knowledge.

I died, yes. I died in Paris.

I died quickly and happily, and I pity the one who saw what I saw, because he is a man and cannot be crushed to end it.

I didn't die quickly enough, but I died very quickly, and that's a good thing.

I am a flower. I am a thought, the Thought, born ironically in the gutter of a Parisian dog sidewalk, your sidewalk, your sewer, your disgust, your home. And I am happy to die, old humanoid debris at the dawn of your shame.

Your SHAME.

SHAMEFUL TENANTS OF MY LAND