If the dialogue has no chance to develop, our pathos has no space to grow. Contrary to what you might assume after reading these regurgitations of mine and other people’s words, I am no fan of dialogue. I am no fan of words. They are lost before they hit the floor. The life has been forced out of them before the waves bounce off the skin of your face. Once they leave the ravine that is my empty mouth that articulates these destined to be empty words. Born hollow and absolutely pointless. The only thing that moves in words you hear or read is the reflection of your feelings. The recognition of your own abandonment. The incapacity of your own expressions. Every conversation is an immediate road to defeat. As much platform as there might appear to be, nothing supports the absence of whatever these words were in their premature state. To utter means to disconsider. It is better to bury and possibly forget than to deprecate the initial thought. All the rest is losing energy. As life is just a frozen state of death and the beyond. It almost leads to saying: why bother? But I do bother. I have to bother. The alternatives are the bridge, or the rooftop, or the train, or the rope, or the pills, or – like this friend – the rifle. None very appealing and only supporting the pointlessness I’m trying to refuse. Fuck, imagine the balls it must take and the depths you must feel to just head out to the shop in the morning, buy a rifle, drive home, sit down and just blast your head open. I can’t get my mind around it. But then, I’m not depressed. I’m just numb. And numbness is inactive. I just get carried. Like I have no more passions, only activities. Like I’m dragged through the room by my feet, face down. My cheek scraping the floor, my eyelid getting caught in some nails. Bleeding rust, but not caring. Not since that day. And I don’t even remember that day. I don’t remember what started me off. It was with me all along. I noticed that when last night I found some paper I wrote in college for a free assignment. It mentioned how hollow I felt back then and it surprises me to see that I haven’t been able to fill that gap. A lurching assassin that keeps hanging around. In the darkest corners of our debauchery. What do I want? I don’t know. I know that I shouldn’t want or crave. And most of the time I’m good at that. I have mastered it. I have suppressed it. I have pushed it down into irrelevancy. Because it truly is. Irrelevant. But I still wish it weren’t.