Desabafo.

To know...
To understand the buried rules of living
Because we have nowhere else to run... except to death.
The turbulence casted by our ancestors,
The art of Caim’s choice…
Her ways, tricks, illusions... her hints.
It’s as if it was a person of her own
A person made of half a million years of complexion
That, somehow, challenged all thinking things
To be able to understand that:
Giving up would be an irrational way of trying,
And to ignore could be the smartest manner to respond,
And that hate was always a proud way of loving.
That all other strange contradictions
Could actually make sense.
Details forming, like sand to crystals
that you call living
(I call it art)
Well, my utopist goal is to conquer her
Not only to understand life’s essence,
But to prove her otherwise,
To injure her with her own intelligence,
To murder her immortal pride.