The lexicalization process of my paranoia

1. The others

Even before that movie came out and the term was coined, I always felt my life had something Truman show-esque about it.
Every time a stranger would address themselves to me in an awkward manner, I would get that feeling. As if my own social awkwardness was mirroring their own, they would look at me with an undefined expression, not having yet decided quite what to make of me, or exactly how to classify me. Something felt staged.
It all started very early, when I was four or five. My androgyny was at its peak and it would really throw folk off.
A voice in my head would remind me that these people knew who I would inevitably become, and that  was the reason for their peculiar behavior around me. They had somehow heard of my future greatness and had saved themselves a first row seat to see my talent and notoriety build up before their very eyes. That much was clear to me.
Somehow, my fame preceded even the reason for which I was to become famous.
Did they have an inkling as to exactly when that was supposed to kick in, I often wondered. And if they did, would their interference not influence my genius development, and shape it inadvertently? Perhaps even delay it?
My admiring followers would be mad, just as I would be mad, when the final reveal was made to me. I thought it was so uncool of these pre-fans of mine, letting me know what was to come, when I should probably suffer my way through regular person life until the moment my genius status was revealed.
This put terrible pressure on me, as the more admirers I encountered, the expectation grew. My life's work would have to be epic. My brilliant debut would have to be something truly amazing, unlike anything ever seen of dreamed of before.

One thing was clear, I was brought into this world to create. As to what exactly I was to deliver, I remained unclear. Should it be something tangible, solid? An oeuvre that I could hold in my hands, to touch and feel and bite my teeth into, maybe even reproduce so my proselytes could worship a physical extension of myself? Or better yet, the complete opposite. I was maybe to aim for the incorporeal, the utterly abstract, aerial. A revolutionary concept, or perhaps a visionary philosophy that would change the way we think, live and breathe.
Meanwhile these satellites, staring at me with googly star-struck eyes, seemed terrified of coming too close. Their lives' mission just to be a part of the decor, naively hoping, believing, that their role in all of this was not superfluous. Necessary, even.
Perhaps they thought they were contributing to my inspiration, feeding me bits of my masterpiece to be. By their rehearsed words, or merely by their presence, their muse-like qualities.

I started to grow impatient. With every passing day, there was another wasted day. I needed time, inspiration, and the right tools and location. And I needed all to converge at once. Timing.
This hellish and elusively perfect triangle that refused to present itself was starting to get on my nerves. Of course, I couldn't go looking for it. That would completely defeat the purpose.
Wondering what my masterpiece would be like, I often imagined I would start with the greatest novel ever written. That seemed easy and simple enough. I could only build up from there.
With the passing of time, however, a little voice grew inside me, like a tumor, starting to mumble horrible things into my psyche. Saying it feared it might be "too late for words". That a simple writing exercise, however brilliant and revolutionary, wouldn't cut it anymore. At least as a first piece.
I was clearly not aiming high enough, and that was probably why no bigger plan had yet been set into motion.
Wrong direction. I was considering lesser art forms since it was too late in life to become great at such an elevated and saturated art as literature was. Too many great ones to catch up, too many techniques to be trained in.

And then my typewriter broke down.

Responsible

So you never asked to be born. So inertia and a worrying mother pushed you to grow up and become one of those.

One of Them. An adult. An independent full-grown human being in charge of their own actions. Having no-one to rely on except yourself. Do not panic.

This is not that different from all your unasked time on this life. You spent your younger years learning a bunch of tricks so One of Them can deem you worthy enough to get a spot into a special Training Box. A few years after that you came out of that Box, with a shiny piece of paper stating your value as a human being so far goes up to here. You might even get a number to go with that.

Once you are out of the Special Training Box, you are suddenly One of Them. With no more training than that, you will be told you need to argue your value, based on the number -or not- that you were awarded on your Special Training Box.

Now. Focus. All of your unrequested time on this Earth has been leading to this Step. The rest of your unsolicited existence will depend on your ability to talk another One of Them into giving you another Number. Remember now, this Number is the single most important number you will obsess with for as long as you draw breath. Not only for Survival, but for Love and, most important of all, Things.

This is the Number you will get every few days in exchange for coming into a certain place, almost every day, and -this is important now-, staying inside performing a series of nerve-wrecking tasks, on which you will constantly be judged.

You might want to find yourself a Box that asks you to do enjoyable tasks in exchange for this Most Important Number. If you are lucky, you can trick One of Them into thinking you will help them make a larger Number for themselves and will so let you join their Box, and set to do that more enjoyable set of tasks.

Most probably, even if you get into that Box, any set of tasks you expected to be more enjoyable will end up not being so. At this point, Things, Survival and, if you are really lucky, Love, will make it so you feel obligated to keep coming into this Box almost every day.

For if you stop performing your assigned tasks, or doing so to the liking of the bigger One of Them directly behind you, or, even worse, decide you would really like to just stop coming to the Box every morning..., you stand to lose having Things, you risk kissing goodbye the Love you found and earned. You may even fear for your Survival.

So nobody asked you if you wanted to come into this world. So nobody handed you an instruction manual for your life.

You do have a choice. So choose:
If you are inexplicably feeling somewhat cheerful after reading this Life Recap, I believe OPTION A would be best for you.
Otherwise, kindly follow me to OPTION B.

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OPTION A/ When All of Them asks you, and, believe me, they will, whether you want to bring another Soul that never asked a thing into this life, you can tell them: "I would never do that to another Human Being".

OPTION B/ The only single real one you ever had: take a leap. You are free to climb up to the top of your Box and jump into Freedom.

Golpe de realidad

Pasa una nube justo cuando me levanto del sofá y mi niña, que hasta hace un segundo estaba tumbada al sol en el suelo del salón, emite un sonidito de protesta, como si fuera cosa mía. Le prometo que ahora vuelve, yo mismo voy a buscarlo, y me dirijo a enjuagarme la resaca con una cervecita.

Pero antes de llegar a la nevera, recuerdo que ya no soy un hombre libre. Y mucho menos libre de tener ninguna resaca que remojar.

Me odio cuando me miento

Es como comer sin hambre, entregarte sin convicción, seguir sin ganas. Sentirte obligada, hacerlo por inercia. Caer en la cuenta de que estás ya rota, manchada, contaminada. Te faltan pedazos que ya no podrías recuperar aunque lo intentaras, y aún así sigues adelante.

Sigues pero arrastrándote. Una parte cada vez mayor de ti se da por vencida, acepta la derrota. Renuncia, lo olvida.

Se abandona, se deja, se va...

We owe it all to flamingos

In the begining of sighs, long before the begining of lies, two of the primordial six were having an aggitated talk about whether flamingos should be pink or bright violet. The Brunette primordial argued that pink would be a much more romantic color, whilst the Redhead one insisted it would be much too mushy. Redhead primordial tried to defend her violet choice by making an argument on how the light would reflect on a much more efficient way, but Brunette kept repeating pink would make them look much more exotic.

- Efficiency! -stressed Redhead.
- Exotism! -harped on Brunette.

Redhead tried to explain once again her views, but her speaker had entered a loop. Brunette's mouth kept opening and closing in the exact same fashion over and over, the exact same sounds coming out of it:

- Exotism! Exotism! Exotism! Exotism!

Redhead was going insane. Her growing anger was turning her face so red as to match her hair shade. Her teeth were clenching, fists pressed together so tightly they made her whole body vibrate. If she could just force her to stop, shut her up. Make her close that irritantingly annoying little mouth of hers.

Her rage blinded her and wouldn't let her think any longer: she pursed her lips together and pressed them against Brunette's.

It worked! No more drilling words were coming out of Brunette's mouth. Redhead could hear her own thoughts again. She felt so happy and relieved she didn't even care to part her own mouth from her fellow primordial's. But as the anger was draining out of her, the pressing and the pressure of her lips relaxed. As she slowly became aware of how pleasant it felt, her eyes closed.

And that's how the kiss was invented. The first kiss took Brunette completely by surprise, but luckily for Redhead, it won the argument for her.

Flamingos are bright violet, right?

It's all in the details

There's certain things she won't ever know. Like how much I really know about her, how much I could guess about who she really is. She doesn't know because she didn't tell me. She didn't confess anything in her sleep either. She just didn't tell me with her words. She told me with her mouth, her gestures and maneurisms, her walking, her stretching, the way she rips open café sugar envelopes and pours the sugar into her café coffee, the way she does it with spoonfuls of home sugar into her home coffee. I could glimpse the extent of her braveness by the way she accommodates in her seat.

It's the little things that define us. The way we rip open café sugar envelopes says so much about us, who we are, our wishes and hopes. The way we play with it afterwards or let it be by the cup's side sets us apart. It marks us different.

I could tell your eagerness by just observing the way you licked your lips. And if I get a glimpse of your hands... Your hands. I could see into the depth of your soul by looking at your hands.

La bona

Quan sigui, hauria de ser així. Gairebé sembla que fos. Però no és. Tant de bo pogués ser. Sembla que pogués ser. Però no pot ser. Podria ser. Potser ho sigui. Si sembla que ho és, bé podria ser. Es veu com si fos. Però no és. No és, veritat? Pot ser. Se sent com si fos. Estic començant a sentir que és. Però no, no pot ser. O si? Crec que de debò podria ser. Em pregunto si realment seria com ha de ser, en el cas que si sigui. Sembla que és. No em diguis que és! Si que és? És! Espera, espera, no m'ho crec: de debò és? Segura que és? No? No, segura no. Però podria ser, no? Encara podria. Sembla que encara podria ser. O no? Ah, no? No, ja no és. No serà? No? Bo, mai se... Val, val. No és, d'acord. Però si hagués estat, hagués estat com ha de ser. Que si?

Effed up in Lilbutmuchhe-3

If you raise your eyes to the sky, let your cares drift into space -this step is really important-, and scrutinize the Universe as if to grasp every bit of it as tightly as you possibly can, you may be able to see the tiniest and furthest planet. That would be Lilbutmuchhe-3, from the A55 Nebula.

This Lilbutmuchhe-3, unlike the other sixty-eight Lilbutmuchhes, was inhabited by rather civilized people. Although there was a question the people of Lilbutmuchhe-3 disagreed on, that divided the planet in two. Each side had their beliefs which, coincidentally enough, were pretty much the same, with almost the sole difference of the word big replaced by the word flat and viceversa. They agreed on the object of worship, both of them ran and constructed their lives around the Assedness. Only, one half enhanced flat assedness while the other did the same for fat assedness. So you see, they cared about the same issue, only they looked at it differently. This was a quite delicate matter, to say the least, that created a rivalry between the two assed urban tribes.

It even leaked out to the spoken word. For instance, a flat butted could use a very popular tiny-assed excuse like: "I ran into big butted problems"; whilst fat-assed propaganda went on with slogans like: "The Assedness Likes Big Butts And So It Gave Me One" or slightly less popular and grandly more radical "Lose Your Ass And Lose Your Life".

And if the Big Butts and the Flat Butts were the Montescos and Capuletos of Lilbutmuchhe-3, Thipa & Klapt would have to be the Romeo and Juliet of Lilbutmuchhe-3. Or the other way around. Perhaps they were both Juliet. Or maybe Romeos... You never know with these lilbutmuchhers. However it may be, despite their assed differences, they fell in love. And in their lovey-dovey blindness decided they could show the world how beautiful and funny life is, no matter the size of your butt.

But they effed up, because the people of Lilbutmuchhe-3 was not ready to accept their love, and they didn't handle it very well either. Despite their efforts to normalize the situation, comments like "Thipa's butt's not really that big, but you wouldn't know by the way Thipa uses it" were not well received and eventually they were stoned to death.