PAINKILLERS

We were born in the city. How are we supposed to write about nature, trees, earth, sun or sea? How are we supposed to write about beauty? This is not fucking Walden. We can't be alone or isolated any moment. This is a electric shit! We're just entangled, chained, connected, sewed, we're just pieces of something bigger, wheels rolling and rolling to nowhere, statics. They teach us to be functional, productive, effective, workers, pawns sacrificing their lives for a cause (the king of the city). But you're interchangeable, if you don't work they throw you up. We're fated to be trash, oblivion, nothing.

Welcome to the paradise machine! Smile! You have all that you can eat! You can't complain about anything! You have fancy houses and fancy clothes, easy, sparkling, promising, fucking perfect lifes. Or you have nothing at all, but then you're just trash since the very first second of your life. This paradise is exclusive, like every paradise. Only the most handsome, the richest, the most perfect, the most brilliant, the most most. They do fancy parties in their fancy houses and they show their offspring like they were diamonds, just something to wear or to sell to the system. Money, we want money! We're money! Our organism clanks like a clock ticking.

 But all of us want to be something else, we don't want to be sparkling diamonds, they are our enemies. We want to be ugly and filthy. We want to be outsiders. We want to be imperfect, asimetric, we want to wear old-fashioned clothes, or just be nude, all day. Just spread our bodies, our dirty, stinky and sweaty bare skin on their cute floors, we want to have kinky, nasty sex on their expensive coaches, we want to mix their wine with our blood, sweat and tears, we want to cum on their simetric, perfect squared white teeth. We have to shout and jump and run and break everything and say many fucking swearing words and smoke and getting high and write or paint or read or performance or do something artistic, art is life. We want to kill the king. Or we just wake up someday and we don't want to have sex with anyone, we just suck, we're very fat, we're too old for this shit, life doesn't make sense, we don't make sense, everything bores or annoys us, we don't understand anything.

We are afraid to get up or open that door, we are afraid of hearing our own voice, we are afraid of the light between curtains, we are afraid of have to do something, we are afraid of their orders, of their shouts, we're afraid of the deafening clank, we're afraid of keep rolling to nowhere. We're no one, nowhere, nohow, nowhat. Now what? Now who we are? We're afraid of losing ourselves but we don't know who we are. We thought that we were something, something apart from everything. We thought that we were valuable, that we were subverting things. Now we're just some empty ball of  hair and skin under the sheets, biodegradable trash.

We promised ourselves outparadise and here we are. Outparadise is exclusive, like every other paradise. Outparadise is a lie, like every other paradise. Outparadise is just a way to forget we were born in the city. Outparadise is a painkiller. We fed up with painkillers, but they were just floating on our blood and stomach, and now, they're sinking, they are vanishing, they're just lost in a lay of piss. Doctors lied, pills lied, you can't kill pain. Pain is here, beating inside me, beating me. We were born in Pain City.

We didn't know how to survive, pill box was empty.