It's cold because it rains. Rain falls on these desert streets without any mercy. There's no one here, so we're just my loneliness and me. Through my solitude, I find my refuge impassable where I'm completely free, and my freedom is absolute.
Oh! But what is this freedom? Why do I have it? Who gave it to me? I ask myself as I walk away faster; then I run suddenly as if something were following me.
The rain keeps falling. Now I rest next to a wall trying to catch my breath, more soaked than before. The steam comes out of my mouth. Is this my solitude so hermetic? So much that not even God could pierce it. A man is himself and his loneliness and his fruits thanks to this. But why am I free? To whom have I asked for this freedom? Has God made me free? But if I did not ask for it, fuck! Freedom weighs too much!
But maybe God has not given it to me.
And what if the freedom I have is nothing more than proof of the absolute death of God because we did not understand the most holy sacrament? Perhaps, He simply abandoned us and then took his own life by putting a sharp knife in his guts; and his blood fell scattered upon us, resulting in all the plagues of the human world as a consequence of having his corpse rotting on top of us. And what can we do? I guess the usual: scream "Father, give us more life! Father, give us more life!" while the idea of death frightens us.
But what is this life if not a possible result of the same death? Perhaps all of this that we went through is no more than the dream of our previous extinct life, which is why everything is absurd.
A table is a wooden board that comes from a tree that was cut with an ax, possibly with a handle also made of wood.
The dead tree is given a series of procedures that result in the figure we know as a table, in which we settle around to consume pieces of corseps of plants and animals that someone cared for, raised; plants and animals that will have been filled with piss and shit. Is not this dream an absurdity?
But since life is a dream, we are the dreamers.
Now I hear footsteps.
Fuck, someone comes to me, looks at me. It objectifies me. My freedom ends just at the moment when the other enters in my domain. Hell is everyone else. I can only wish that he leave, uselessly because this and all my prayers will be lost like tears in the rain.
Posted from my blog with SteemPress : http://seifiro.timeets.xyz/2018/08/28/the-anguish-of-freedom-short-story/
