All The Unsent Letters: At 180 Centimeters

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At about 180 centimeters, I have to face this heavy life.

This small mass has to bear all of this.

Governments, restrictions, love, my strange ailments, tons of anxiety, torrents of sadness, dogs of fear, longings, and the rest of the vile masses with which the world shares. And the hate, the hate in me needs at least a mass the size of a football field.

This hatred, to which new varieties are added daily, hates beautiful women, hates happy humans, hates poetry and poets, I hate the fragments of Facebook philosophers, even the naive ones of Cioran, writers, and writing, I do not write, I cry.

And music, I hate music and songs, the cutest piece of music is like shells falling in my skull, I hate the sound of myself when I sleep, and I fear it

I hate sex, one time, I was in bed with a girl who didn't know me, and while her breast was in my mouth, I contemplated the situation, a piece of meat sticking out of a bigger lump of meat, and I sucked her while she groaned, I thought to myself, what are we doing? Is there anything worse than this?

I got up from the bed, went to the window and opened it, then stretched my head and called: You masses imprisoned within the walls, there is a mass of 180 centimeters. It feels distressed, tired, oppressed, and helpless, all it does is suck on a piece of meat and hear the groans from it.

Oh, the misery.
Nobody answered me.

This mass should bury the bodies of fear, dreams, and memories with dunes of soothing pills.

Like a plucked bird, I stare at everyone in a panic, not knowing where to go.
And the 180 centimeters body knows what will happen to it, and knows the date of its deferred suicide, and no other mass, no matter how hard it tries, can feel the hurt it contains.

Mama

Your son's thorns grow from his throat thickly
Your son became a cactus
He is rising from his bed in the middle of nightmares screaming:

Water... water