The wind from the car was striking. After she told me all her exes had made her cry, I tried so hard to give her one reason to smile.
And she did. She smiled.

Now she is making me cry on my birthday. And for the first time that is.

Her words do not reflect "I need not to be reached". she wont protect herself because when i saw those eyes for the last time, she was not looking at my face anymore, she was dealing with a nuisance, and the priority in her head was to see, if she can make it to the gym in time or go home to eat.

her words cry i like you.

but her phone number blocked me.

The white default missing profile shouts a cold "I don't want you to exist" or at least to exist within my knowledge.

Shes thinking about halloween, thinking on the party, thinking on hanging out with her friends. thinking about costumes, and other things at her life, like the jobs she got and i couldn't, the school classes she takes, that i can only watch from afar. the gym she works out where she talks to so many people i can only ever dream of meeting.

call me envious, you are allowed. But how can i not be thirsty for happiness with the empty pocketed full of holes stomach I've been carrying for years. With a deep, insatiable... starvation.

She was already over it, so fast and quickly that her last tears came weeks before mine, and she came calm and collected to announce me that it was the end. And for her, it was another friday.

Funny how her name can't escape my calendars. Like seeing her beutiful glossy green eyes printed upon every texture and mosaic. Like looking for a number in the vast sea of marbles just to yell. Bingo!

You cant unlove something immediately, unless you never loved it anyway.

What if what you love is a lie?

falling in love with lies is the entire purpose.

Maybe I am the little delicate fox. All wrapped up in himself, trying to cover with the fur all the strong coldness from the darkness winding and sliding around.

Moving to a new city might be the most cowardly response, although I have decided to leave it to fate.
Fate, as if it were fair or just.

Fate, as if it were correct or advantageous.

Dad says you gotta be patient.

And how is time warping into itself, from seconds to minutes, from minutes to hours, from hours to days, and from days to weeks, and weeks to months?

Knowing damn well I am walking through the sliding floor tileset and watching time run as fast as a diving bird, and as slow as a sloth, a cartoony sloth.

I can't wait any more seconds.

Everything feels so... broken. And so... slow.

I know I am not hallucinating, but I am seeing texture shifts, like shifting the UV coordinates. I am seeing it, sensing it, but not hallucinating it.

I had to walk out of the confined, cold office space and the blue segmented cubicles with the blue segmented people. Everyone is so much older than me, and they speak in a language I do not understand.

But I need a job. I need money. I need medicine.

Dad says you gotta be positive.

And how am I going to be positive?

If I see myself drowning, and I had planned to drown. Again, how do you know you are not dancing like a presentation?

How can you be sure of what is real about you if you can't tell what is real about the world?

The real question is: what is it that you are really seeing? You see spit, vomit, puke.

But is it real? Do you see reality as it is? I can't even display it in text as it really happens, shifting faces from the reasonable Mexican friendliness.

I have been lying, as in good and bad. I have not told you the truth. I have exaggerated, I have omitted. This is not the full truth or even half the truth, as the contents of itself are permeated with lies and hyperboles.

But it is true that from time to time I don't see any light ahead, like tunnel vision with corner vignettes when your stamina runs out, from the panting and shaking, and running.

And your abdomen hurts so sharply, as if a bullet struck you through, wondering if you can escape. The people on the streets look at you, dressed weirdly, catching people's eyes, like any of the maniacs and crackheads of the street. And yet I will do everything to make people not know it.

Ridi, Pagliaccio. Ridi.

I repeat to myself like a training code, to keep walking and not fall onto the concrete, but you know that it is really just so far away you might not make it.

And die on the street, from a heart attack.

Ridi.

Why are you calling her? Stalking her? Visiting the places you might see her? She does not want you to even exist.

Dad says you gotta be humble.

And now you are making it all about yourself. Sure, call that friend. You are having an attack. You are not having an attack. You are just whining like a baby pig.

You can still see, judge, and execute.

You are overpowering an innocent girl with the presence of a maniac. You stumble and sit on the ground, hoping for something to trick you out of this clearly bad plan.

Yet you ciphered your words and thoughts with a long forgotten key password.

Call your friend. You are crazy. But you are not. You know what you do, but you don't know who you are. Are you the clown? Because the clown can still type the phone number and ask to call. But the victim can't stop shaking and contorting into himself, to the ground, crying, puking, shitting, and you are just sweaty.

Ridi.

Now it is your friend's afternoon to look after you. You ruined their afternoon, and now you can't invite them to your birthday. But how come? You didn't say you were having a birthday. Now you do?

Even a little bit of flirting could just do wonders to your emotional state. Losers who don't feel the heaviness of the word love can live by just the crumbs of flirting and staring at asses or breasts.

How come a man who was never interested in this has lost himself into the void of this yet-pending-to-market problem?

Ridi.

You almost did a stupid thing today

The wind of the car, created by the thermodynamics of the metal carcass, is designed to displace the energy of the stopping wind toward the sides.

Have you seen the wind crush the plants to the nearby sides? I had not, until now.

Maybe it would not have been enough to crush my skull, considering it was too slow and too low. But it had wind.

It scared me from doing something stupid. No. I did the stupid thing.

Oh, F-girl. I went to see you, like a woodpecker visits its ex's nest. But I was not visiting a real human.

I named you as such, in her honor, in her face, the bloody, ripped face of her that you wear, and that barely covers your twisted, Proteus syndromic skull. Are you even smiling at me?

You ripped her face, and now her name. But I know now: it is not her, and it is beyond you.

Do you believe in loops?

As in cycles, repeating over and over, shifting the sun into the moon, and every iteration going much faster.

x^n+1/n+1, and so forth, is the equation for the displacement of time that is never equal to minus one. The days will never stop, and the sky will always continue moving and rotating in a shocking motion.

You have seen thousands of mornings, and millions of nights. Real and fictitious.

How will you break up the loop if even writing here is cursed? It repeats. It prompts. It gives me a reason to tell you about the popping heads.

The popping heads.

Running to another city to escape and cry out from the grasp of the darkened shadows.

It came with repercussions.

The faces, the eyes, God, their hair. I hate them all with a burning sensation.

In this place where everyone talks but not to you.

You came to meet them, to forget, to fill in the hole of dirt you dug up with the hopes and despair that girl gave you.

For that is the love of your life that you are now sealing in a crepuscular coffin and chains so it does not escape the ground.

And their replacement is this? These. These people.

No. They are disgusting: their mouths, eyes, noses. Where are the cool people? Where are my friends? Where is my lover?

Where do they hide? Are they underground? I need to find them. I need to study them.

NOT YOU. Stop talking to me. NO.

I can't, for the love of my life, and for the very little lasting emotion besides agony and confusion, give those people any other attribute than just pure, sheer hatred.

Horrible. Insatiable. Horrific.

I hate all of them on a molecular level. I want not to. But I can't help myself from seeing their faces and heads explode in a smashed up pop of blood and gushes.

Is the whole world that insufferable?

The fox stares from the distance like a predator, looking at women from the distance, who, where, who is the one, where is she.

You, dumbass, are the fox.

The fox is not you

The fox is not preying upon

The fox is only scared.

The fox is scared from the whole world.

you are not the fox

YOU ARE THE FOX

you are not the fox

YOU ARE THE FOX

you are not the fox

YOU ARE THE FOX

YOU ARE NOT THE FOX

you are the fox

YOU ARE THE FOX

YOU ARE NOT THE FOX

you are not the fox

Today I turned 22.

Now you are the witness of a year of me.

Songs have come over and over, looping stuck in my head, the same melody

over and over

Like a broken soundtape

From the very first second of my day, and thinking about everything from the very first second, every day

But I figured it is out of my control is it not?

It all repeats like a loop, rewinding.

Rhyming.

If I managed to path out each stage and section, all you have to do is just read this. But mind you every interaction will go faster.

Your days are seconds. And every second is a year long.

every suicide threat loses power every chance.

like a joke told twice.

Even people you don't know can impact you in a way you have not thought of.

Your three day score streak has ended. You return to step one.

Square one.

You are tracking me aren't you?

checking the lines, the reds, the greens, the yellows.

You see through my facade, through the plotted time.

Evidence that I had lied.

Yes.

As well as you can see me lurking.

talking to strangers, desperate clinging to them, hopes of connection.

hopes of meaning, hopes of talking for more than one second, with online losers, real-life winners. Long gone acquaintances. But none.

But what else can you do with the cocktail of homebrewed stupidity and fear for the socialites

Not fitting in, or sliding inside each carcass, like a slick silver slide, like a quarter into a coinslot.

Loneliness is my politics.

Loneliness is my blood.

I'm instead, bulky. And deranged.

Is death, not the ultimate problem?

For the ultimate problem.

For the eternal problem.

The permanent problem, requires a permanent solution.

I suppose you are in the other side, once you start asking your insurance company whether suicide is covered.

I don't think I'll leave a letter. It's not my type. Besides, you already have the full compendium in this god forsaken project. And a simple note regarding my intellectual property rights.

You think a blog post could encompass the totality of one person's life? As in the text could really be meaning who you were?

The reactions, the bad times, the good times, the type of man you are with a girl crying in front of you. Or the type of person when you see an old man fall to his knees.

The small gestures, the small annoyances. Your face when winking. Your eyebrows when saddened.

The face you made when you got your first kiss. The noise you made when you fell in love.

When my grandfather died I could not help but to feel angry. At him. Looking at my familiars cry and whine. I just kept thinking.

What an asshole. Your death made my family cry. Of course he didn't choose to die.

Can't help it, but being a good liar. It also does not help that my ass face hides emotions.

Maybe that's why it's hard to make friends, everyone could think I'm angry. No, that's just my resting face.

Hey what's the business etiquette for telling your publisher you won't be there to develop the game?

Why would I ever warn people? Remember, to threat twice is to lie. So if I fail, how can my veins and blood withstand the shame to be still here.

My life would only lie in significance on death. And I'm sure that phrase must've been written so many times by so many losers that it has lost any worth or value.

Some days you think about it a lot. The way to execute it, the timing, the method. Other days you just stare outside the window and think... Nothing.

But again, thinking in the retribution or in the weight of my sins... Maybe it is for the best.

I promise I can change! Of course you will. She's walking outside of the door. You would do anything to make her not leave you.

It took you so much time to realise the cultivating grudge and cruel darkness, and pity from your heart. You did not do all you were tasked for.

And there is no version of you that would be... social. Attentive. Active. Delicate. Dedicated. Men are beasts. Except those lucky unmaterialistic ones that are not promiscuous like the sinners the rest of us are.

Your feminism only works in a vacuum. And therefore useless. But worse, performative.

In the two types of justice. One does not believe in retribution nor redemption.

Your creations are permeated with your amateurism, your bad decisions. You can't even tell where your game is. What it says. What it means. It is simply, deprecated

To wield the scales of justice, you must eliminate your contamination. And its source. Be it your heart, faulty and shallow.

Or so it feels like it. Shallowing all perspectives into a unified tunnel vision where life does not exist outside of it.

There is a distinctive ache in the heart when something dependent of someone does not work. Because the person is no longer there. Or anywhere. And so you are forced to accept it.

Have you ever thought what would happen if people tried calling you, whenever they need some form of help that you usually do.

The moment they need to pick up their phone, call your contact, and always expect you to be there?

And the piercing anguish they feel the instant they realise, you will never answer.

IF.

...there is any misunderstanding, let it be clear that what brought me down this black pitched tar void is not any woman whose love I know I lost.

It is beyond. Beyond her, beyond her name, her body, her eyes. Beyond of her voice, beyond her desire. Beyond the cold kisses she gave me while she crossed her fingers behind her back. Beyond the tears she poured in the dim light while we spoke our inner deepest fears.

But instead that there is a gruesome revelation of the nature within, my nature.

Does one ever shake hands with yourself through the mirror, looking at that disgusting, malformed face. Smiling or grinning with clear satisfaction as the skin melts down and the skull oozes with putrid stenched vile.

Maybe I delude myself seeing things through the pink filtered glasses. Trying to understand the deep connections of fear, pain, trauma, and affection. Connection and Separation.

Not a saviour, not a vessel for good intentions. Even getting attracted to the girlie things, like a moth, seeing the art in the makeup, seeing the darkness in the shared trauma, seeing the retold abuse of childhood. Even if it interests me as any way a woman could beg for a man to even listen for a slight second. Can't you admit that it feels so performative and fake that not even you buy that lie. The fox just tries learning its prey rituals. The fox just tries to approach slowly and respectfully for a hug.

Results and consequences are the positive description what I am, and what I caused. What I thought and what I planned.

By far... the biggest crime is to perform. To an empty audience. For now nothing is genuine. And nothing is real.... Dishonest.

Everyday, the thoughts of end get louder, not thinking of jumping from a locked balcony, but instead looking at moon shining pale as bone and questioning yourself. Would the moon miss me?

Would it shine through my window the same way it received me every night? Would the black amoled curtains block her view from my perfectly intact room? A room with perfect bedsheets, perfectly turned down equipment and perfectly disconnected cables. Perfectly cleaned nightstand and bookshelf.

Would you miss me? Through the gray gothic clouds and mist, from the sky and the horizon?

Saying goodbyes to the moon is certainly a new low. To wonder if an inanimate object like her would miss you and fill you with grief and sadness, as no one else in the world fits inside your tunnel vision vignette, as if real tears meant a passing or wisp from the few people who could really moisten their eyes in sadness to see your naked body laying on the cold and rigid set of tiles of the bathroom.

The other side is to stop wondering of livestreaming yourself in the gratifying and spectacular view of the tenth floor, and realise your tools only allow you for a miserable, quiet, end.

mind you

My creations, my aberrations. My small cumulative efforts are nothing compared to any other looking through the net.

There is no originality found as the main flash that fuels any object made by me.

Be it in space, be it in time. Decorating none. Like picking a pencil, stencil, or keyboard. And no wonders can be produced.

Now I feel bad for the invested with no returns, the keyboard wasn't free, the tablet wasn't cheap.

I use a huion 420, if... I don't know why would you care. I just felt like saying that. And my keyboard has 49 keys.

It cringes me seeing my words, my drawings, my practices. My voice, my face, my brand. My selling point is nonexistent.

Not near the greatest, and for art to be a delicate ritual, is to offend myself and the art itself.

The game is not consuming me, because I barely tweak anything. It was meant to ship last month, one year ago.

If I don't do it. Then this all be a facade. No. The key, the enigmatic key that uncovers the behind the scenes, and shows you the true nature of every miserable pile of detritus.

I stink, my body stinks, my frail body stinks. And so are the offsprings of my abominations. Aberrations.

I have a document in my computer which states what to do when I'm gone. It was not suicide specific. But it gets the legal way to distribute what I have, if any... Be it compost.

No therapeutic psychosurgery can reverse my mistakes, the mistakes that I've piled up in every trace and in myself and my creations. Every word, betrayal, trust, alliance, construction, destruction.

Though that question itself is not what true suicidals think about. It is just looking again for attention. What would the grievances talk about? What would my epitaph be? Who will say the probably AI speech with my casket open? If I decide to not destroy wide open my head.

I know jumping from the restricted floors is hard. But I can jump afar from a seventh story if I can make it to the end of (or the start of) next week.

Hanging is hard, because nobody really has a safe way to tie a knot and to get it hanging on the ceiling. My ceiling is flat, how am I supposed to do it?

And the riskiest one is medicine, but I'll have to make some annotations of how much do I have of which and what. But failing with completely block me from doing it again.

A shotgun would work fine, but it won't make a pretty body won't it? Besides, this is not a country for a wide range of gun lunatics.

And if you do... Is because there is not a real reason you want to kill yourself. You only want people to prove you right.

I heard that the last step before death is being happy, relief before the final solution.

I still find it hard to contain myself from crying, so I suppose that there is maybe some parts or sections left before getting there.

I don't find any joy, in any aspect of my routine. Not in this hell made chair of doom, or this crashy shitty computer that breaks when it wants to.

Will.... Will I see someone when I die? Will I see a face? Will it make sense when I'm already half way down?

I wish there was a slight piece of value but..... I just tap my fingers in this keyboard to numb them, and make my body believe that I'm being productive.

You almost did a stupid thing today

Do you believe in loops?

The popping heads.

YOU ARE THE FOX

YOU ARE THE FOX

you are not the fox

YOU ARE THE FOX

YOU ARE NOT THE FOX

YOU ARE THE FOX

YOU ARE NOT THE FOX

YOU ARE NOT THE FOX

IF.

mind you

The moon will not miss me tonight.