I am a limited being made up of organs, muscles, tendons, cartilages, joints, blood and cells. I live by following ideals that orient my life, that give it meaning but at the same time constantly ruin it. I would like to be who I am not. I would like to do what I can't. I would like to achieve what I don't have. I am a tightrope between dung and salvation, between finite and infinite, between the fear of nothing and the longing for everything; and the more this rope is stretched, the more it risks breaking. And so, between an attempt to reach perfection and the need to mend the continuous tears resulting from this tension, I wear out daily and inexorably burn myself. And as I aim for the top, perfection crumbles in front of me: and the higher I aim, the more it shatters. Each step I take is an attempt on life. Each jump I take is a piece that detaches from the chaotic puzzle that makes up my life. Each stroke forward is the crumbling of a dream. Thus, as I climb daily towards heaven, I slip desperately towards the boundless nothingness which is the grave of every ideal and the cradle of all existence. Physical collapse. Inner shipwreck. Dying life. And I wake up cyclically all sweaty and panting from obsessive dreams and each time I see myself for what I really am: a limping beggar, on the edge of a sidewalk, dying out of an excess of desire.
