Antinous committed suicide: it was not an accident.
This I thought today as I returned from school passing through the suburbs, and every glimpse of peeling wall hurt my eyes, every stench of garbage turned my stomach, every billboard raped me with its idiocy. I felt the air burn on living flesh. I walked close to the walls like a drunk. I was oppressed by a terrible premonition of a nightmare, as if at any moment the buildings were to collapse, the asphalt of the streets to open up torn by chasms, a pestilential smoke spreading from the subsoil suffocating me. I couldn't wait to lock myself in my room.
Back home I was greeted by the daily slap of my privileges and felt even worse. Nothing belongs to me, I deserved nothing, I was born by chance into a family of rich people, in spite of the myth of Er: this aspect of Platonic philosophy seems so absurd to me now. Maybe he was right. If only he'd come back for me.
But I'm not even able to give up all this. I live in luxury while half the world starves; I know it's not my fault, but I feel like shit. I can't get rid of the feeling that my whole world is about to collapse: tick-tock, the bomb is about to explode, and in the meantime we go to the beautician.
A conditioned reflex prompts me to turn on the stereo, but I immediately turn it off. I can't listen to music anymore: you've confused me, I don't know what I should like anymore. It's like being constantly under the scrutiny of your stern and ironic gaze. I hated this feeling, if you were here I'd tell you, and then I'd tell you to put whatever you like on the plate and I'd listen to it with you.
Why didn't you stop me that day? You had plenty of time to do it, I walked down five flights of stairs in slow motion. God, I've never felt so confused. I sure know what I will never listen to again: Moon in June.
I enter the bathroom: in the mirror there is a guy disguised as a young idiot, not a single detail that doesn't say "look at me".
I had never considered the difficulty of being beautiful. It sounds like a privilege, but it's a terrible rip-off. One has to be very stupid or very cynical to consider it a privilege.
What is beauty? Is it really the short circuit that rekindles the spark of the original idea? And why, then, does beauty almost always distance one from the good, from the right, from the truth? It is a fact that everyone accepts anything from me, including the most aberrant behaviors, just because they like me. Females like me as well as males, so everything is allowed to me. I'm technically bisexual,
lately more gay than bisexual, and this is very trendy today.
Why does my era express itself in such a stupid way? Trendy, gay, bisexual. I hate the term gay: from now on I will write it as it is pronounced in Italian: g,h,e,i. It makes the stupidity of the word more evident. If you were here I would write it in a notebook, I would show it to you and you would laugh about it with me. If only, if only you'd come back looking for me. It's been more than a month since the last time, and in the corridors you raise your arm to greet me, hi handsome, how are you doing?, and you carry on going on talking to someone else.
The day will soon come when not even music can save me: it will no longer be music, it will be showbiz as Kurt said, it will be a catwalk for male and female models, decorative and ambiguous beings of uncertain sex, and people will be moved by their sentimental problems, because people are stupid and they like weird things. Hollywood male star is dating model Emmanuel Kellermann, the two of us hand in hand with our leashed poodle through the streets of Los Angeles, then at Ghei Pride with the rumpled Armani suit and hair pulled back to appear spontaneous, normal, casual: we ostentatiously kiss in front of the paparazzi, we announce to the interviewer that we will soon be renting a uterus and having a baby of our own, it's our right, god it's cool to have gay millionaire rights.
And the rights of those who have nothing? What about the street children who disappear into thin air, the children kidnapped, the children tortured to death to get the aphrodisiac drug for some old billionaire pig? I would like to kill some of them, rip off their genitals and feed them to their dog: "King Echetus, merciless slaughterer of men, with his sword, will cut off your nose and ears, then he will rip off your genitals and give them to eat, raw, to the dogs". Homer yes, he is decidedly trendy.
I hate the idea of having seemed like this: I don't want to become like this for any reason in the world, do you understand that? Obviously not, you don't understand it, because you didn't come back looking for me.
But I don't do anything, I don't lift a finger to look for you, I rot in inertia.
And this vomit, this cursed vomit that has been tormenting me for weeks. Kneeling in front of the toilet, my stomach ravaged by spasms, I wonder if it's worth treating myself: and to say that I've always been a hypochondriac.
I crawl into my room and sit on the bed. I hear my parents calling me from the garden. I don't look out. I don't want to pretend, I don't intend to intrigue others with the suspicion of strange mysteries, I don't want to know if she's there. I just want to be alone. Others are helpless in the face of my problems, so talking about them is useless; and even if they could help me, there is no reason why they should.
The problem does not depend on us. The problem is upstream, there is a terrible factory defect.
As I write these lines I realize that I am a hypocrite: my real concern is losing my beauty, which will inevitably happen when I get older. I will no longer have anyone looking for me, anyone who wants me, they will pass me by like a grave. Don't pretend to care about street children, whitewashed tomb. The disgust you feel is just a regurgitation of bad memories: the vomiting is releasing you, preparing you for the next great experience that you already feel in your veins.
We are kneaded with selfishness from head to toe, and only hypocrisy can deny it, and only love can delude the opposite. But love, yes love, why do I always get confused at this point?
I did love you once. They say the owl was a baker's daughter.
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
What did you really think of me? Was I your sexy toy? Were you my Hadrian? Then why, why didn't you come back to find me?
The truth, pure and simple, is that you didn't love me.
Welcome among the possible things, Emmanuel: the world is yours as they say, you are beautiful and no one says no to beautiful people, what does it feel like to be a candy that everyone wants to suck on?
Let them do and so be it. No one cares if you have become a ghost that no longer reflects itself in the mirror, a squalid erotic object with no more subject.