0xc0495d62…0330sent to0xc0495d62…0330·#20,532,297·view on Etherscan
Guido, when I picked you up from the shelter it had been 3 weeks since she had left. "Get out," I said. "I think this is the only time I've ever felt a grain of pleasure through you. Say it again. And with pleasure. I'm out." This is a person who was aware of my accident, that I had impossibly surived, and brought me back to what we try to call "life". Terrifying to imagine that often the deepest intimacies of life aren't sufficient, but as Rimbaud says - nothing is more unbearable than knowing that nothing is unberable.
I got you home and watched 8 1/2, you, afraid at first, and in the corner, came closer to the bed and look a leap of faith. And right then Guido on screen said "I really have nothing to say, but I want to say it anyway." And from then on you were guido. O captain! my captain!
When they were putting you down, I got over her, I didn't want her back anymore, I wanted you back. Your eye closing, white light, my head some fruit hidden in the grass of an orchard, moving a little, fruit that won't be found by any picker, aware of this, but moved by some gust or whatnot for a moment, then still again, continuing its way to rot.
I returned to euthanasia, one's claim over one's life, to end it at will, arguably the closest one can come to free will. But is it? I've always wondered why so many of us want it as a right to excercise, even though we could very well do it ourselves. And perhaps it comes down to ceremony, the final wish to be surrounded and at aleast at that moment not feel alone, to its furthest possibility, to have what or who has loved you beside you, and, reluctantly, beside you decision to do it. You were in pain, I was in pain because of you. So maybe both of us should have been put down. But your pain I borrowed to refute my own, replace it even, but also prolong it. It's oddly fulfilling, pain. Somehow it feels right, necessary.
And now to move on, the unending scarless wound coming and going at will, to tell yourself you will seek love no more, to tell yourself you must seek love again, and again. To stare endlessly at the crouching acacias and want to inject them into your veins, to want your blood to stand upright in front of you, have form, talk. Don't talk, blood. Don't talk, marrow.
It's time to tell oneself that this too, has a purpose, lowering your sagging body into the ground, shoveling the dirt on you, still, until the last moment, trying to avoid your mouth, your face, your eyes. Then it's done. Sometimes it feels like the earth is on its knees, not you, but not because of you or us, it's not on its knees out of helplessness for you, but for you, because it felt it was sufficient for you. It should be, it should be more than enough for a life. But life isn't enough for life. Something dies, something looks like its dying or been dead long, but then what? We look for signs. There are none. We make signs, they mean nothing. But we still make them. So will I.
Soon.