EMAILS TO A FRIEND: October 2012

Цвета Апостолова  Tsveta Apostolova

Цвета Апостолова Tsveta Apostolova

BettyTompkins, Cow Cunt Painting . 1976

For some crazy and indefinite reason I came to the head a while ago a joke born in the vaudeville of the beginning of the previous century by an unnamed lunatic comic, but that sums up, in a way, the true and on the other hand vulgar, human aspiration, that is, the heartbreaking struggle against loneliness and incommunication. - "I have learned that you have bought several pigs
" - "Yes I have bought some pigs. "-" And how much have you paid them? "-" I have paid them a hundred pesetas each. "-" Well, what do you intend to do with them? "- I think I'll have them out there and in the spring I'll sell them at 100 pesetas each. "" "If you sell them for the same amount you will not have any benefits." "True, but I will have spent the winter with you. "Do not you think that it perfectly defines the existential basic and primitive longing of all the individuals who have lived, lived and lived on this aged and ill-treated planet? Naturally, and you have noticed, I have come back to generalize, because there are a small number of subjects of both sexes and different races, some crazy, other sane, who worship isolation as the only remedy not to contract that deadly disease and that is transmitted by means of the word, called stupidity and that is my recurrent theme.

It is clear that taking this passion to the extreme did not hurt anyone, but there was always a time when I had to talk, to demonstrate, to almost always lie and sometimes to regret, not to mention that I spent a lot in mouthwashes or rinses and sometimes when I woke up in other people's rooms, an uncomfortable feeling of betrayal of individuality and personal freedom reminded me of the true definition of the words "miserable" and "sold."

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more than stamps, and that when I return some invoice. They continue to like mysteries, but I hate interacting to achieve the goal. I prefer to use the imagination in the dirtiest way I know, without words, with animal grunts of satisfaction and perfectly conceived perpetual movements. I do not waste time designing faces and above all, I am free to stop when I want without having to resort to caresses and affection. Am I turning into a monster? Or perhaps self-imposed loneliness and carried to extreme limits is only a subliminal form of intelligence?

I am aware that I repeat myself; I even repeat myself repeating myself, but I can not do anything else. I would like not to relapse into the same misery, but it would be just another lie, another fiction carefully designed to evidence the unjustifiable. I think I'm getting to that point of no return in which I have no choice but to disguise the reasoning in order not to feel guilty. I may be responsible for my own idealisms, I agree, but unfortunately I do not have others. In these moments I cling to them with sticky insistence and redeeming eagerness, with risky and suicidal manners, but with quietly quiet hopes.

Now I should end up with another joke, but I do not want to be so predictable. >

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