I can’t concentrate, but apart from that things seem to be in a rather stagnant state. Some questions occasionally get better, some others the opposite. Things break easily and need replacement. People do the same, in a more tragic manner most of the times. They ask for attention, sometimes imperatively. But it’s nothing worth noting anyway.
When you meet somebody you know in the street you’re supposed to greet them, but this is a custom that’s falling into disuse more and more. The others of my generation and I just pretend we don’t know each others, we ignore our reciprocal presence. Then we’re supposed to acknowledge ourselves once again in critical times. I’m digressing again.
I really do not know what I should be writing about. Everybody seem to have so much to say. I just want to retreat in my own space, wherever it is.

It’s 5 am in the morning. At this hour even idiots are asleep. Most of them. It’s the best moment of the day, almost.

They cut the tree. For a big nothing, for a bunch of pylons, for a money bag, for a bad conscience. Homeless birds will eat their hearts out, and poo on their heads.

Why do people always think they need something? Most of the times they don’t need anything else than a functional brain, but they keep on filling their lives with items in the hope these things will be valid substitutes. I hope they enjoy being cremated or buried with a deluxe microwave oven. Or with an all-inclusive gym subscription.

Cars are getting bigger and bigger. From penis enlargements to cars’, men do really need to get hold of their virility. Sad world we are living in.

Kids have no problem nowadays to tell random people to go to hell. Maybe they’re right: we all need to go to hell.

Why is everyone in this city getting a fucking beagle? What’s wrong with other dogs?

Inflatable or not inflatable: that’s the question.

I shouldn’t be drinking porto before going to bed. Makes me dream about the most ridiculous things, like being blown away by gigantic Nordic goddesses or escaping from cannibals working in civilized public places. I don’t want to relive life in my dreams because of some stupid wine.

Whatever they may say to you, you don’t count. Seriously, you don’t.

Why should your boyfriend touch some pregnant girl’s belly and start going all “ooohhh” and “aaahhh” in front of you? Why should he pet dogs in the streets and do the same? Can’t you even be jealous of something in peace?

I shall find a way to get rid of those piles of books. I can’t live in this room anymore.

Why are there on the web banners with color deficiency tests in them with “test your intelligence” written on them? Who made those banners? Chief Wiggum?

Books adaptations: the more we try to ignore them, the more they’re fucking up our pleasure of reading. At least screenwriters should read the book they’re going to work with.

I need to take a leak: from urinating to stealing a mirror, I love to say it.

I shouldn’t talk to strangers. Not even if they’re store clerks or mail carriers. Mail carriers are thieves anyway.

Finally mother is going back to work. It was rather annoying seeing her everyday playing google games with a can of beer in her hand. At least I’ll be washing dishes in peace once again.

This house is full of ants.

Why can’t responsible people at least learn to speak and spell? Why do the outcasts, the culprits, the irresponsibles have to go through the torment of figuring out their wisdom?

It’s oh so quiet. It’s oh so still. The rest of it is unrelated to the present moment.

Bats and night birds flying everywhere, in pain. Another shallow day of unbearable heat is coming.

I love self-reproach. I can only feel at home with myself if I feel miserable for at least ten minutes each day.

Nobody has time anymore.

I feel my body expanding in the wrong directions, a mass of matter without any natural logic. All this sense of redundant growth is like a loss and a fraud. Inflating, a blade of darkness cuts into my side and the body becomes a sponge, absorbing all the poisons of the world till the day will come that it will be so spoiled that there won’t be an ounce of the goodness that was given to me at birth anymore. I’m rotting faster than I should, I’m afraid. Rotting inside and outside, and I don’t know which is which or what’s worse. And while fooling around trying to pretend I can bring decency and relevance to the world, I only find myself developing bags under my eyes, and wrinkles and holes, and vulgar features, and weightiness. I don’t recognize any of this anymore, but caring is too dangerous. Caring people are the first to go to hell. Letting corruption do its gruesome job is much easier and has its convenience. I can shed a tear or pull my hair once or twice now and then, but for the rest it all ends in a crater.
I wanted to be graceful and I wanted to be sane. But most of all I would have liked to create content worthy projections of an interesting soul. Or whatever. All the pretentious claim to be entangled to the absurd is a pose. It’s not even the Absurd in the true sense of the word that I can count in my chords, it’s just a chaotic pile of lazy nothing. I cut and paste slices of mess and then there’s nothing left. It comes from nothing and in nothing it ends, all of it. I’d gladly exchange life of this fake absurdity for a crumb of content and meaningfulness.

What will I do without the camera? Now that I got so used to it that I bring it everywhere. How much time will they keep it? How long will it take before they can repair it and send it back? What will I do? How will I survive? I could take up crocheting or gardening; I could take to smoke or bite nails more devoutly; I could start a cats circus or simply be an efficient part of society and do what grown-ups usually do with their time: bitch about bills, drive a car, be afraid constantly. I’m already into bitching and terror. This leaves the car, but who needs a license in civilized countries? This is not a civilized country, almost everybody drives a car, but I can still pretend I’m not here anymore. As a matter of fact I could pretend of pretending and just go on with what I have now.

Whatever.

But I hope the postman doesn’t end stealing the camera. I feel like biting my nails a bit after all.

Partly unrelated: there’s somebody, somebody bothering me, regarding a certain matter I can’t investigate more thoroughly. But I’m bothered just because I’m psychotic, I don’t know if it’s really that serious. It just makes me want to bite a little more.

The first thing to give me the welcome when I get home after three days is a smelly cat that’s been diving into trash bins, ebay outbids and invitations to some relative’s birthday I don’t want to attend – but I have to, since I can’t say no to an eighty-something person who’s not right in the head and who passes more time swearing and smoking than breathing and living. It’s ok, life’s glamour resides in small everyday miseries, too. I got used to it. It’s almost exhilarating.
It’s been more or less one whole year since father passed away, and thanks god I was miles away from my mother in the day of his birthday. I’m sure she’s been talking to walls like they were living persons and saying things that she could never even think about in normal conditions. But nobody’s in normal conditions, madness runs in the family. My father would have laughed, glass of wine in his hand, thinking about all the sappy gibberish my mother’s been trying to do and tell to his grave, like planting flowers that will never bloom or patting soil like a baby’s back, and so on. She’s like that; sometimes it seems to me she’s the real deceased person. I only hope there won’t be celebrations entangled in Christian hypocrisy, because in any case I’m not going to take part in any of them. What’s going to happen I know already, but I’m not going to think about it. Everybody has these moments, since families are worlds of their own, but all identical at their core. Nothing really changes anything: the culture, the respect, the lunacy. Families are always families after all.
I shall do more. I’m not good enough. It’s not that I need something to inflate my ego, I need something to inflate my self-respect and to give me purpose where there’s none. All these things I pretend to do are breadcrumbs and excuses to hide myself from the fact my patience is the same as always: weak and deprived. Whales, whales are waiting. That’s what I need.

What do you expect from people inhabiting places on the verge of moral and intellectual death? I look around the room, and everything seems to be telling me this, from the bookshelves regurgitating disorder to the scraps of too-lived items nobody could make use of anymore.
What do you expect? Understanding, support, nodding motions? You’re walking in dangerous waters, on a line dividing liberation from derision and mockery. Ingrateful son of your fatigued ancestors, of your deprived parents, of your generous soil. Why never finding peace in the actual benefits of an interred life, with every possibility projecting the reassuring shadow of stasis for years and years and years to come? Why not enjoying the safety of deceasing things – morals, emotions, pride, plans – their comforting smell of nothingness? Why not admiring the bravery of hopelessness residing in normal mediocrity?
The ingrateful and selfish heap of flesh that you are will eventually rot as any other: it won’t look more graceful, it won’t shine  in the dark of your cairn, if you’ll ever have one. Besides, you’ll have wasted the comprehensive stare of your peers, you’ll find yourself alone. No flock will build a steady wall around your once restless legs. Do you understand what it means?
Isn’t this what they are always thinking when talking to you, when you seem to be idiotically caressing those delusions of grandeur, considering inside every working brain cell the possibility they will bring you somewhere? Aren’t they the ones shaking heads and telling that was to be expected from somebody with those all upside down organs, no sense of reality, no ability to get ready to live as the willful victim of nothing but lack of a principle-driven insides? Are you aiming at your own self-destruction, severing your roots like that? Willing to do it with your mouth constantly filled with bile and resentment? Do you really think you’re better than them?
Do you really think they care at all when they look down on you, that it’s not only simple jealousy to direct their well-pondered wisdom?Are you still allowing them to steal significance from you, just to see them swallow it like any other matter without importance, like their trampled self-respect at the gym, their oblivious afternoon naps, their evenings at the saloon, asses abandoned on a barren vacuum of exhausted plastic and metal?

Non ti curar di loro ma guarda e passa. What’s yours is yours only: the dignity and the hope.