Lost generation

We were wrong. What are you going to do. But we did it on purpose. They called us the lost generation because we never wanted to win. We agree to lose even before we have played. We were defeatists, fatalists; we fell into the easy descensus averni Of all the vices we spend our lives on We never got old or decadent, we were always so alive… and so dead.

We only talked about today because it was what we had left, a whole immense today of youth, vitality and banished dreams, exhausted, extirpated with drug surgery. Today was another day to burn in the rapid burning of life. Your life, my life, it was just a matter of time to burn like sheets of a frenzied calendar.

Rectify? It was cowardly. Learn? Better to forget. Raise awareness? We have our school of self-destruction, you could not raise awareness.

Without a doubt, our foundation was based on the famous and repetitive spiral of self-destruction; it seems stupid, illogical, nobody throws stones against its roof, nobody but us. We loved to throw stones against our roof, piss against the wind, and stumble hundreds of times on the same stone. They told us "no" and we protested with a resounding "yes"; Against the current we have always gone and against the current we die drowned in our indolent pride.

You never understood us, don't try to do it now, forget about us and those to come, about our school, behind us. We are a number of casualties estimated in advance, we are the most lost of causes, the most nihilistic of all currents, it is philosophy, simply philosophy, nothing more.

The prospect of doom was the most comfortable of positions, it was inertia, the centripetal force around shit, the universe of the most soulless rebels, everything that we, blinded volunteers, wanted to see. The light should be somewhere, but let no one turn it on! We sympathized better with the darkness that had always reigned in our lives; always, since that time, since that secluded day when we stopped believing, believing in anything.

In this today I miss a door, a door that I would have left open. All those who were have already left. Being the last one does not seem like a heroism to me, nor does it make me think that I was wrong. You know, rectifying was cowardly; but I miss so much leaving an open door for me!

A door For what? So as not to be locked into constant justifications that I was not wrong, so as not to have to be venting out in a cage thinking, but opening up and telling someone about it. I would like a door so as not to have this rope that I carry in my hands, a door is a way out, a new life, an opportunity, an alternative that the lost generation never wanted to allow ourselves.

A little fed up if I am, I am no longer so young or so vital. Today (As always, I think again only about today), I am with the thick rope between my hands, I look at the crossbar, I throw the rope over it, I climb on the chair and tie the end of the rope firmly to its other side, I already had it measured, one of the few premeditated acts I have ever done.

I have put my neck through the knot of the gallows and adjusted it feeling a sharp chill. I just need to push the chair and my stomach has knotted, my knees tremble and a deep melancholy pierces me from top to bottom. Again I long for an open door, I would place myself on its threshold, make a reverent gesture to say goodbye, looking straight at the past that I would leave locked there. Then, making sure it was all over, I would slam the door loudly. Instead, I end up releasing myself from the chair, it is too late to rectify, as always in what my life was.

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