And there I was in the middle of the party and the guy I like, you know, César, he was there looking at me and he expected me to go ahead and talk to him, I could see it in his eyes. But I just couldn't do it, I just kept on talking and listening to boring guys instead. Guys who could notice I was getting seriously bored with them and who would therefore tell me "hey, are you getting too bored with my easy talk?", question to which I would treacherously answer "No", so that I could remain in a selfproduced kind of misery for some minutes more. Like I said, I kept on wandering within César's reach but stil I couldn't bring myself together and talk to him so I finally went inside. And, you know what? There inside of the party was Marcos, and this guy is so hot I can't hardly stand to see him, he actually turns me on, most of the times I see him! All of a sudden Marcos comes to me and says he's crazy for me, says he wants to get to know me and touch me, but in that precise moment I didn't care, no matter how surprised I was -I'm misteriously shy, I've long dark hair, big breasts, slim body. Actually I was not that surprised. All I could do was think of César, anyway, so there I runned to see him once more but it was already 5 am and he was gone. I called him on the phone, he picked it up and then hanged it out; I tried it again, he picked it up then hanged it out.
I started crying out loud and went home without saying goodbye to Marcos or anything, I just couldn't help it, I just had to walk away from me walking away the whole time.
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She died aged 93, nobody around her to be seen at her funeral on a bright saturday sunny morning. The birds were chirping and the air was cool. She, a halftime grumpy halftime nice old lady, had been loving the same man who never loved her back for almost a century, and this in spite of the radical equality among all human males. At least that's what somebody told me. But you know, people use to take profit of the death to create exciting confesional atmospheres, we know this since Dostoievsky. That guy/narrator's funny; all the time people are both dying from tuberculosis and talking about God in his novels; I guess "funny" is not the precise adjective to describe this, because we are aware of the fact that writers always talk from bits of their experiences, as average and ordinary as they are (the experiences), just with some magic powder added to them. And experience in Russia at Dostoyevski's time might have very well implied tuberculosis, heaps of sick bright kids who felt hatred and love, all in tears and turbulence. Let's stick to the halftime grumpy halftime nice old lady, though, let's focus on the emotion I was trying to portray here in the first place. Let's switch it off, the networking clever mind. Stop with the references, stop refering to the references because when you talk and write, which are part of the same thing with a different technique, you are always refering to something, be it the distorted past or the desired future. So now move on.
What is literature without emotion? What is literature if it's me, a stupid narrator, telling you what structure do I use to create the image of a novel which is a hundred pages longer than it ought to? I can understand this, after all. I feel I could fill thousands of pages sometimes, too. But you know the problem? This requires an incredible amount of shit, and one has to cut the shitty weeds so that the tree can grow. What an amazing metaphor, that of the tree, the tree's everything, the soul, the meaning of life, a piece of wood.
Should I tell you about how good Dostoevsky is, anyway? Maybe I do have to tell you. But I'd rather say I have to suggest it to you vaguely instead, just that. So that you feel tempted to cling to the book by yourself and get to see what it contains. Perhaps that's the meaning of education, constantly doing it on your own. Always moving in and out of yourself so that you can understand yourself and be out there moving on the real world as well, all at once all the time. Keep an eye on everything including yourself but not excluding the others. Because as unimportant as the others may seem, particularly in annoying situations such as waiting for the gynecologist to call you and seeing how all women seem to have a greater right than you to be openlegged and properly examined, the OTHERS matter as much as you. Or as less as you, as you prefer it. You see? I let you choose, that's freedom. Freedom's as scary as shit.
Oh, the nice halftime grumpy halftime nice old lady! I totally forgot about her. Let her wait in peace for the rest of eternity. Or whatever.
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