Bangkok at night.
Like a brain fueled with amphetamine and alcohol. It is possible to see it running at its top speed after the sun goes down. You can smell the traditions, the habits, the old mixing with the new, and most of all, the vices. Because this is a city born on vices, a city where everything is permitted, if you have a bit of money. The small sois of the old part of city, with rats running through the mountains of garbage, and the lights of the few restaurants and dives open at night. And then the markets, the people, one million motorbikes and half a million illegal vehicles, the lights everywhere, the old neighbourhoods with Chinese writings and food stalls open all night until the sun comes up. Everything penetrates in the rear of your mind stimulating your subconscious without you even realizing it.
“Maybe that’s why I have insomnia”
You and your being skinnier because you skip dinner. You have to work so much for maintaining a lifestyle that you can’t have. That I can’t have as well, but that I improvise to impress girls. Image is what matters. I calculate expenses and moments in a meticulous order just to get in your panties. I could get in everyone panties with the least effort. And I will do, you can be sure, whatever I need to get in your panties.
The world is in a state of calculated decay and nothing can be done. Humans are blind and their will is buried in their mobiles. Shamans know how to take good selfies on shiny on their smartphones, on which applying vintage effects, enchanting the masses through hashtags. Myself, I know perfectly how to be individualist, egoist and shrewd and how to master those powerful arts, keeping my mind sane in a frame where I, basically and simply, come first.
Initially, I worry about the world, then make a quick estimation, based on parameters and considerations that are different everytime. Then, I usually come to the conclusion that nothing can be done. Practically, I bask in our own shit, finding the place comfortable as if I were a sharp, crossbred, over tattooed merchant.
Your beauty. I can’t really see it anymore as overtaken by your being superficial. Or maybe I’m jealous, because you are even greedier and more selfish than me. I want to have you, slowly, to make you feel emotions. Not because I’m a Good Samaritan, but to crack your empty wannabe Hollywood pampered gaze the hard way, showing you that emotions and thrills exist. Excitement and hormones, this is what we are.
While I go home I think about a song that I could dedicate to you. A melody that will take care of you during the day while you brain black-out a little during tasks.
But there’s none. There’s no guitar for you, no simple or passionate words, no poetry nor prose, no chorus that can help you, I’m sorry. Soul emptiness is a tremendous condition and also very contagious. I’ll keep all of those songs, instead. I’ll save them in the back of my brain so I can use them whenever I need, one for every situation. One for the scent of flowers, one for the view of the river, one for the sound of a feminine voice, one for waking up and one to lie down, and the last one for being alive.