office

Tuesday, June 25, 2024

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In this impeccably ordered space where I spend three quarters of my life, nothing can occur that isn’t strictly planned by languid humanities and blind collectivities. My time is a washed-out sum of trivialities that feign occupation, and as soon as I get paid, I dash to the shops in search of a bottled substitute for happiness.

I wish I could suddenly explode, but I know with horror that I am condemned.

Inside a room of justified and generously measured proportions, a silent stage for chimerical transcendences. A jug of water, a flower, a mahogany desk or its closest imitation. An ungrateful telephone. A pristine cell. There I suspect— and I’m not wrong— delirious poets have died, prominent writers: fallen musicians, magnanimous tales; the muses have been forced to personify themselves as surly secretaries. In the most frugal violence, noble souls perish daily and so horrifically; they are worn down with each call, each signature—and only from nine to nine with an hour for lunch. A weary body arrives every night to blame its misfortune on the shadows reflected by the television, but without desire, without true hate.