Absurdia.Net

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.