The melody of my life is dissonant.

There are moments of peace on days when happiness kissed me with lips of amnesia, keeping me away from the miserable existence I never sought... an existence granted, in a carnal moment, by my parents. Arsenic is the fragrance that permeates this stifling afternoon, stagnant like so many others. I don’t know why I scribble my sincerity on this rough piece of paper, resting on the cracks of my desk, worn from so many days of sun, followed by endless nights.

Dust.

Dust everywhere, quieting the future and yellowing the memories of those who returned to the relief of the grave. I am a sad person forced to smile, needing someone to give me love. No one loves a grumpy person.

No one likes someone who sees the futility in what surrounds us—the sets of rituals to which only we attribute meaning. All of this, without direction or reason, has gone on without us and, after forgetting us, will continue the same way... in an infinite rhythm... like a sun lost in space, devoid of planets, burning in the eternal cosmos.

The silence of inevitable finitude. I want to go back, back to the first moment of life, when my heart punctured my chest with the excitement of everything new. Back to where the spark of the beginning dazzled my eyes, now blind from the horror of my passage here. Back there. I want to go back there, to the beginning of everything.

Everything.

On the tip of a knife, a star shines peacefully in the darkness of nothingness. The only permanent reality. The hand strangles, and the tear falls. The hand protects, and the heart drowns in awakened remorse.

The sun shines in the distance, in the inconsistency of the dream, where mutilation is not conceived and imperfections soften. Look, answer.

Why does it hurt so much?!

Because it hurts, oh how it hurts.

Because it hurts so much that it makes me wish for death, saved only by the little one who loves me and wants me alive.

Because it hurts without a scream or drama.

The corrosion of silence that distances and kills me, bringing me the peace of petrification. The pain that is, the pain that encloses, that buries and tells you the second of finitude.