Pebble

Frustration bites the neck always after a kiss, its mark outlasts everything, it is temporarily indelible, it is chemically permanent. Building a pathological feedback loop with the companion of every excursion toward the attempt results in a reward system reinforced by self-hatred that unfailingly shrinks beneath the shadows the obsolete adolescent who should be cheering us on without conditions. Every step toward the future feels as heavy as carrying the oldest of guilts, moving forward conscious of deceit brutalizes thought, even a blink becomes an exercise of primal will, even breath regrets serving the body, life loses empathy when it discovers this turn will once again be a waste of strength. Only in the introspective silence provoked by the solitary lie of planning the reattempt can one glimpse on the visible horizon a free pebble moving swiftly toward the glass that separates reality from success, though after the sound everything turns once more to night and rests in the eternity of an uncomfortable complacency. One must not fight the future if the past has already won the battle, there are no shortcuts to the tyranny of pain that awakens the latent contempt. Frustration always looks you in the eyes before giving a kiss.