Foolish fool. Damned fool. Fucking fool. Fool of fools. Fooleristics; a cross between statistics, stochastic, and simple foolishness. What could be more foolish than that? I am the first and, most likely, last conscious (well, semi-conscious at least) adherent to this brand new mix of mathematics and philosophy. More on this when I am not quite as drunk.
sardonic smile from my face. What a bastard I am. A superior little fuck. Wipe that smile from my face, please.
That is why I love… love. It is the only thing which can wipe that asshole smile from my face. It is the only thing which can move me to be human. Warmhearted. It is the only thing which can make me believe in something more, something beyond the everyday human foolishness which I encounter.
It’d be nice when I encountered this foolishness only in others, but that ain’t the case. The same foolishness is in me. I try to keep it in check, without much success. Again and again I say to myself: don’t be a fool! If there is any pitfall in life you can avoid, then this one! You’re a smart fellow, you can do it!
That feeling. That sublime feeling. You talked about it, because you thought you’d found someone you could talk to. Really. Talk. To. It was a mistake: to talk about it. You talked too much. You wrote too much. You broke it across your knee until all the magic was gone. If only you had known to shut the fuck up. Christ, keep your big trap shut, can’t you? No, you can’t.
Actually, you thought you were keeping it alive. You tried to sustain the sublime by evoking it, by conjuring it again and again with your beautiful little words. You danced around it like some fucking shaman. Yeah baby, yeah baby, you’re mine, yeah baby, you’re mine, c’mon, be mine, oh yeah.
How could you be such a fool? How could you believe that anyone you love could be swayed by such nonsense? Desperation led you to it, and you simply weren’t smart enough to see the trap. You flogged the idea across the desert until it was dead, you fool! The most beautiful thing in the world, and you tickled it, tickled it again and again, until it had laughed its last laugh. And that was it.
As if love was something finite, like a bottle of water that you drink until it’s empty. You simply couldn’t believe that. You still can’t… but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe.
I stood on the mountaintop, laughing at the fools below, and a little man came up the path and asked me, what was I doing? I told him, it’s none of your bee’s wax, upon which he tugged my sleeve insistently, and told me I had an arrow that belonged to him… What is this arrow you speak of, you fat little man, I asked. There are no arrows here, only snow, and hard cold stone, of beauty unsurpassed, with the exception only of the warm beauty of my bride. Ah, he said, the very arrow I speak of is lodged in this woman, your bride. I’ve run out of arrows, there simply aren’t enough to go ’round. I need it back!
A terrible thought entered my mind: that if he got his arrow back I would lose my bride. My face went black with rage, and I struck the little man a blow, so hard that he stumbled, and fell from the mountaintop with a faint scream to the fools below. In that moment I knew that my bride was now after all lost to me, and that my days were cursed.
I descended among the fools, and I was as a fool, and I was no longer myself, and my bride saw me but did not know me, for I had killed the fat little man, and with him all love was let out of the world, with a vast, deep sigh. There were no more arrows, no more love. Nevermore. And I wept, fool that I was, and did not know why. I wept, and I woke up weeping.
We didn’t feel our hearts beat when we climbed the hill. And we were idiots. That’s about it, kids, in a bloody fucking nutshell. Otherwise, there’s hardly a difference between being young and old. Experience makes you a tiny little bit wiser (a really, really tiny bit), and your body isn’t blessed with adamantine health anymore. It’s not better, or worse, it’s just different. You’ll still be a fool. You won’t have less problems, or more. You won’t love or hate yourself any more or less than you did… if you’re lucky you’ll be faintly aware of why, but only faintly, because you will also have realized that it doesn’t matter. All that, or you’ll end up a grumpy old cynic like myself.
God, how I hate it when I spill peanuts on the carpet, drunken fool that I am. Alone, you growl at such things, in a way you would never allow yourself in the presence of civilized human companionship (not to speak of civilized human female companionship). Terrible.
Thank God my wine-consumption is limited by available money.
And, with some luck, I’ll soon have some sort of woman again. That will curtail the growling, and the wine as well. Or will I, God forbid, get hold of a woman who doesn’t give a damn how much I drink, how many peanuts I spill on the floor? A woman who will accept me as I am, growl and all? Heaven forbid.