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The cursed


"Single chapter"

The whispers devastated me "he must die, he must die" so, infected with a deadly fever, I began to write...

The clown who died every 27 days was the reincarnation of many sinners, "The crème de la crème de la crème", was an evil guy, I don't know what allegory to use to talk about the crimes committed by this guy.

His first death was due to asphyxiation, little by little he lost oxygen, his skin turned purple, a black void that pierced his soul made him understand that there was no point in fighting since he was not going to defeat his enemy, without thinking about something. coherent explanation for that punishment imposed, he sighed while an irrational fear trapped him, he thought that he should beg and so he did - I don't want to die; He exclaimed with tears in his dirty eyes, fearful of a fate that he believed to be undeserved but he was already trapped in the vortex of karma, begging was wasting time, his stupid mind must understand it, but he did not want to give up on life.

Condemned by a paralyzing fear, in a cold sweat, shit flew out of his sphincter, giving a nauseating smell to his so infamous room.

What was the reason for his punishment? I think my whim, what did I expect? The destroyed lives cannot be recovered and I think this essay is a way to explore my imagination.

When the clown was reincarnated, he did so in an obese and short body, he was the perfect repellent of fertile women, a poor graceless man with the curse of a countdown incapable of stopping.

Under the pleasant shade of a large cherry tree I found myself wrapped up and started to cry, where am I? I asked myself, the answer was Tokyo, Japan, a beautiful place, it smelled of peaches and vanilla, the fragrant scent enveloped me and incited me to dance, but I couldn't forget what had happened to me, its voice attacked my mind, unable to let go because she was infatuated, karma said? Did that shit even exist? The truth is that I don't know what is going to happen, I just satisfied my instinct, if I was hungry I ate, if I felt like drinking, I would burst into the spring even if it was sacred, because my pressing need was not going to be repressed, there were no concessions, There never were, only the actions of the main character in this play called my life.

Suddenly I understood my helplessness, everything was a game, my life was worthless because everything was already written, it was a paradigm shift, I had to erase my schemes, my conceptions, dogmas, and way of life; My inner being was assaulted by a growing pain, and I don't know why Paganini's sonatas were in my mind, while the violin played beautiful melodies like the campanella, the concerto in b minor number 2, the caprice number 4, my skin she was lacerated by the marks of the number 27 XXVII, it was true, everything Paganini touched was magic, as if he too had had unspeakable secrets, or a pain in his soul, it was as if he could understand it, the lyrics of his songs finally it could enter my soul, it entered through my blood and perhaps because of my mental alienation due to so much pain that I experienced, I was able to understand it, and I wanted to ask for forgiveness, but the dead do not speak, only the XXVII does through my screams , because my flesh is naked.

Captured by the insult of punishment, the days passed, but no one rescued me, no one took pity on me, I was a fugitive, because human kindness could not find me.

The truth that had not been told was that I did not have such a superfluous and essential existence, the truth is that it was a refuge, a way to illustrate and learn from pain and forgiveness, something like behavioral conductive therapy, but what? Where should I lead a plot? A simple and dirty vendetta?

The only real thing in me was my lack of realism, everything I once believed to be mine was only pleasure and euphoria when harming, that is, a primitive instinct, which did not have an iota of humanity, and my ego, which It makes you believe that I'm more than just a sad, unfortunate joke. If I say it enough times, will my wishes come true? I would die to be the wolf, the one who stalks, the darkness of the lonely forests, or the wandering demon dedicated to insulting hearts with carcinogenic influences just to see them cry and masturbate with it, because this shell only hides a being defenseless before its inhospitable reality, the inability to love, and see colors in a gray sky, who only wakes up in the middle of the morning, yearning to feel pleasure again so as not to shoot themselves.

I envy you, normal humans who can feel something more than a pressing need to chase the drug, I am not able to enjoy anything, because I think it was cursed with insane selfishness.

I think I'm the chosen one, maybe they should call me "the superman", drowned in the rancid sea, I'm going after that seed of evil.

I am just a poor unhappy devil, I have no excuses, but I do have aces up my sleeve, my nature is complex and selfish, I am a chameleon in the desert of your mind, I can cry, I can laugh, I can cry while I laugh, or laugh while I cry , do not underestimate my ability to get into the role, because I am incapable of feeling remorse.

Have I lost consciousness?

I feel dizzy, I fear that this is why I am unable to give an adequate descriptive monologue of my surroundings.

I smell blood, and a growing erection decides to appear, incredibly the blood is mine, because I have been castrated.

With a smile he exclaimed "I can rape with a stick."

Who was evil in life, he experienced death, with one thought in his mind: This is not over.

The clown burned in hell, and said: I was born sick but I love it, let those damn flames burn!

The clown burned in hell, the flames embraced his body, but that was not a punishment, it was an incentive that he soon began to enjoy.

Dear sin, thank you.

Among many punishments, one that seemed to have an effect was amputations, every part of his body was torn off by the roots, that took away what he longed for and only defined, "his ability to feel pleasure", drowned in the whiskey of shame, He asked to die, he felt unworthy, an imposter in his own body.

He understood it, so in a last attempt to recover his identity, he took his life and ended it on the 26th day, in an infinite cycle.

End of essay.

26 мая 2024 г. 6:55 0 Отчет Добавить Подписаться

Об авторе

Carolina Satoru Me puedo considerar el más bello ángel que cayó del cielo álgido por la propia belleza de mi alma (es decir mi interior, lo que me define, la idiosincracia de mis letras, y mi alma pura que lucha a diario por no caer rendida a los pies de la deliciosa maldad, encadenada e inactiva, llamémosla aletargada, por la fuerza).


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