They Are Happy
It’s funny. Why would they? Why would they believe in a proceeding life. What is ever so aesthetic about it anyway? It’s not a bank. You shouldn’t save your happy moments for something so uncertain. If you have a moment to live, why not just live it? Why must you be pulled back by stories upon stories of whom couldn’t make it to that “sacred paradise” just because they “sinfully” chose to “live the moment”?
It’s very confusing when you walk on beautiful lands. It’s confusing because you want to confide in the earth and not in anything else. You want to confide in the harmony that is a given fact, nothing more. Nothing out of the usual. Nothing that takes a leap of faith you’re not willing to reach. All you want to do is feel the breeze regardless whether a west or east breeze. It shouldn’t matter as long as it felt good. As long as your hair felt the orgasm of every stroke of wind. Nothing should matter as long as it felt real. You don’t need to be “good” to feel the breeze, you felt it anyway.
The art of feeling alive is only established by liberation. The liberation that is dormant when you confide in so many uncertainties. The uncertainties that pull you back, that suck your flesh without a definite reason, without anything but a sole “because”.
I can hear the sound of people. They sound real. They laugh. And I hate them all. I hate them all for laughing, for giggling while they foolishly aim their empty cans of beer at some trash can. I hate them.
I hate them because they’re happy.
Right now I’m on a train to a destination. A destination that is not so different from the “sacred paradise”. It’s got rivers, boats, art, homes, women, and alcohol. It’s real. And I write this in liberation. I don’t hate them no more. Because I’m happy for now. I’m happy,
and it’s real.