Clincing

"Clinging undoubtedly makes ideas and words repeat themselves, and like a continuous deja vu, it guarantees stagnation. On lonely nights, the human asks himself what is really important to cling to?  A question to ask in the intimate and not as part of a group because the things to hold on to in a group can be easily given and propagated, diffused, and the answer can be required before the same question, even without needing it. The human is then lost between true desire and longing, and even the words seem to be repeated in detail that, in their noise, annul the construction, promoting confusion or tedium, which promotes frustration and simply not seeking to specify the thought.  At first, he was scared to find the same lines and the same figure painted years later. But, after the years, when he found his handwriting illegible, he understood that he was clinging to frustration from their past. The penultimate. And he saw it as a possibility of creation and improvement over time (except for his increasingly indecipherable handwriting). Sometimes, he felt guilty, but most of the time, he didn't care. The system itself, the worst consequences of the dark times, taught him to simply laugh and appear to be apart of it. He was an artist, and he was not looking to be sold, but perhaps through the next years, he will be a mystery to be discovered or a cause to be accepted. 

On a large scale, fear, more than comfort, leads to acceptance of clinging to what oppresses is inappropriate and perverse. The fear of being oppressed or losing social acceptance because the rupture or the non-acceptation of the systemic manipulation is promulged (because it is impossible for modern humans not to realize this with the consequences on the individual scale) due to the monetization allowing survivance and a level of life, not a quality of life. Surely, it has already been written; it is monetization and not value,  So what is worth holding on to? Sufya had decided to go ahead and do for him what all her previous fears prevented her from doing for any man, even at the cost of losing. Seeing her naked body painted in that gallery, she could have chased him for recognition, even if he didn't see her face, but she remembered that she had slept in that bed, covered both by her arms and by those black curtains. She then did not hesitate to run to his workshop and found it empty. Sufya thought about many things: she either hated him, she hurt his name, and she cried thinking of the last night with him before insulting him. But then he understood that it was not only that he had lost the opportunity for her but that a new search was opened. She began to walk again, looking for the old port. Yes, peek for him. The painter.

The words are repeated, and the arguments are built again with other evidence, adding to the previous ones. However, despite the teachings of letting everything die, leaving everything to chance, and the decisions of others, some things are worth preserving; despite that pride (which in the end is what seems to move the individual along with fear: arrogance), the isolated individual finds that which is worth keeping in himself, that is worth holding on to and searching for even if he has thrown it away and not necessarily because he has lost it or it has escaped: a feeling of freedom and peace, of love and strength, a name, that body, that hand, that look, that place. The idea, the voice. And it is so simple to touch, feel, hear, and live it... but the selfish environment encourages clinging to selfishness and hatred, which is undoubtedly wrong, even for pleasure. Another sizzling Sunday in November, the last, actually, fortunately. After the journeys in that solitude, Ernesto looked at the mountains separating him from the rest of the world: he tried several times and thought about Daniela, Diana, Yen, Dam, and all those women who could have been that year and were not. They are; they could have been with him, and they are not. Why should they be? Why should they be? Was Charles ever supposed to say it was loneliness or freedom? Aren't they both?

Despite the frustration, those who clung to the idea, not the person or object, have a clear conscience.  The human might have done one or the other, but it doesn't matter because, in reality, despite the wrong interlocutors, the decisions lead to acts carried out, with consequences that are and that do not depend on oneself. Of course, not everyone can be sure of the same thing, although they can say so to maintain the appearance of a conscience but not necessarily have it. So, despite how fallacious it may be expressed in the community, it can't be accepted individually when, in that repetition and clinging, the truth is clearly there. It is unfortunate that the human being, in his arrogance, does not defend her and clings to his own pride or the fear imparted by others. I can only remember her smile and her feminine lips. Feel all of them. I blame myself for giving and feeling pleasure, not promising love, but for loving, forgiving, and continuing to love and excite. To free their minds, bodies, and what some consider their souls. Is there anything more wonderful than feeling a woman's orgasm? her laugh? feel her gaze, her voice, and her breath? Yes, I am guilty of loving them and wanting them in freedom. I was guilty of being part of their journey and sometimes abandoned, accepting that I was part of theirs, but not the end. Yes, I'm sad for my loneliness and freedom, but not ashamed."