The Chemistry Of Disillusion

Love is a promise, an illusion created by lonely people to agonize with its image day and night so they´ll have something to feel, to pretend life is harsh but they succeded as heroes in defeating the sadness they´ve created for their own amusement. They want to suffer cause they want to feel alive, they want their existence to be taken seriously, but even the life of an insect is more sincere than any romance, which is just flattery and vanity. Love cannot be found in any relationship, it´s not any nice detail as flowers or saying the same pretty words every minute every day as a necessarily habit; this tradition makes me suppose romance it´s a whimpering nightmare, foolish slavery and a cemetery for every night. It´s so dry it reveals that we are bored of life and there´s nothing worthy in us; but still we can presume of having a heart... and a soul to be shared, being optimistic, thinking that finding that special someone is all we need to be happy even though the world is being devoured by hell...Lovers are the proof of humanity´s instinct for self-destruction, they raise ignorance in their narcissistic charms as they promise each other being together forever and ever and ever lacking intelligence or sanity.

Poor modern lover, you talk a lot about love being such an overcome of obstacles when it´s just entertainment, and you kid yourself about demolishing walls, cause people´s hearts are shallow, you don´t struggle with nothing at all. It´s so easy to love, it becomes ordinary, nothing so special and unique as you guess. But still you cry, you wish, you miss, and boy, you just want to suffer; that´s the interesting part for you; separations and break ups. You see love as a challenge, as a hunting, then you write sad poetry about feeling so lonely and needed for affection. And you say for sure you´re willing to sacrifice all for love, all to be together, but friend, your hands are young and therefore empty, all you can offer is dignity and such a thing arouses resentment. Come on, your time is not even worthy as sacrifice, in a second everything changes. You have nothing to give except a bunch of stupid words and casual comfort.

True love is a cradle for passion, I agree, but not passion for someone else. Romance is a complete necessity for sex and presumption. Love between people is what we call lust and pity. True love is an idea for which you wake up every day trying to fulfill it as if it were you´re destiny, true love is to hang on with our mind, feeling so glad of what we can think and do, of what we can create and destroy.

Once more I dream with the blessings of anonymity; seeking solace in front of my grave I write for the crows dedications of praise.

Isolation & Beatitude

Wizards applauded and poof, everything disappeared...

...

Then, the philosopher came to the scene and explained to us all: Our soul is like a black hole; all that´s beautiful, all that has a meaning, what´s important and natural, all is consumed by our passion for existence and our nightmares to remain empty.We steal the essence of everything we touch. We create ghosts and that´s all we can feel, phantasmagoria and illusion.

Many may not believe in hell´s charm, but some do, and so they´re condemned to a kindness born of fear. I do believe in hell, I can see it every time I wake up, it´s the shit that most people have named as enthusiasm and optimism in a country seduced by poverty and stupidity, where the tedium of work is the highest virtue for soul assassination and the voice of misery the hymn of so many shattered dreams...but people seems happy with the TV on, dying without realizing it.

Paradise is disillusionment.

Disenchantment makes possible the vision of light, it makes it seem like hope from the deepest comfort of darkness, it then means redemption and beatitude; the last of the great dissillusions: the world is full with decorations. Dissapointed of all I was able to recognize all of my own desires, I could recognize myself with no disguise or mask.

The lost of nationality makes everyone appreciate life a lot more, as it helps comprehend the world with no frontiers. He, who doesn´t feel nor the most minimum pride for his country is surely a person committed to life.

In loneliness, time gets perverted by the anathemas of our conscience; always uncertain about our shadow, always doubting of what we are. In the hour before sleep, the last thing to be thought of is the yearn to be drowned among so much darkness forever, and we get to sleep with a huge smile upon our face at the possibility that is really happening.

In silence, you don´t find yourself, instead, you invoke all your demons to celebrate the great orgy of your ruin, your conversion to a human spoil, exiled and defeated. The more profound a man´s soul is, the more endless will its angst seem. But this dissapointment will really sanctify or being, free from the curse of belonging to the multitudes, who, believing they´re all united in sharing the same joy and the same ideas, walk happily towards the precipice.

A smile is free, such an inspiration to believe in happiness, but there´s nothing more true that we enjoy so much to be crumbling on the inside.