Tuesday, January 7, 2014

Letter to myself

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Little wanker, it's been a while since we talked, you and I.

I know you’re sulking. I know you don’t like me much. I know you want to ask me what has become of my beautiful promise. The kind of promise we whisper when we are kids, when it’s late, when it’s night, when the future seems as fascinating as a starry sky.

For so long you wanted to kick my ass. You wanted to shake me, wake me, yell at me: "What are you doing? Did you really forget?"

Yes, actually, I did forget.

When I was laying in five stars hotels in the company of easy girls. When I was counting my money, month after month, year after year, with the furious desire to earn more. When I thought I was conquering the world by swallowing sushi and traveling first-class.

But all I managed to achieve was to accumulate air-miles, plastic cards and used condoms. For the sole glory of selling carbonated beverages.

When I turned my back on all that, nobody understood. "You’re insane, killing the golden goose is blasphemy!" Even my mother stopped talking to me.

They didn’t know I had a promise to keep.
A promise made to a little wanker with a bad hairdo who confused life and Jules Verne’s novels, who appeared to me every morning in my bathroom mirror, staring into my eyes.

I kept telling him: "I've tried so hard… Freedom... Yes, it was beautiful, but it didn’t fill my fridge. So when the sirens called, I couldn’t resist. Their singing was so intoxicating. And then they were so hot. You should have seen their never ending legs, their damning asses, their erect breasts and their fabulous pussies.”

I kept telling him: "You have some nerve blaming me, when the only things you knew were Saturday night jerkoffs and hopeless romantic tears." But nothing worked, he refused to leave me alone.

He refused to leave me alone because he was right. It took me a long time to see it, to understand it.

If life is not like a Jules Verne’s novel then what’s the point of living? Is it to accumulate, accumulate, like some old Scrooge or is it to walk through life like a tourist, without changing anything, without creating anything?

If love is not like that of the Cid and Sophia Loren, why bother loving? To come and go in a wet vagina, for the sole purpose of releasing one’s seed elsewhere than in a tissue? Or worse, to have kids because society dictates it?

No, thank you. Not for me.

So stop sulking. Can’t you see that I'm trying to keep my promise? Even if it doesn’t move fast enough, even if I get lost along the way, even if the damn sirens keep singing.

Little wanker, I can’t promise success or fame. I can’t promise you’ll be cheered in the streets, I can’t promise you’ll see your face on the cover of glossy magazines, I can’t even promise you'll find your soulmate, or your fridge will always be overflowing with flavors.

But I can promise that we will have fun, you and I. We will kick mediocrity in the teeth. And finally change the world. One dream at the time. 


© Claude El Khal, 2014

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