“Now, how do you tie
together the pieces of your life that were torn up from the canvas?
You can't. Thing is, as hard as you wish that to happen, your life,
once fucked up, is fucked up until the very end, until God comes to
clear the mess you've made shooting right in your face. Truth is,
you've really messed things up, son. You had everything a man could
ask for. But you lied and you threw everything to the devil who
welcomed such impetuous acts, such blind rashness with open arms.
Your lies more than anything brought misery down upon you. You were
trying to flee, to get away from the consequences of your lies, but
you were the source, giving birth to ever more lies, and in the end
you had to live all by yourself, for within a prison of lies you had
carefully woven you found yourself trapped. Like a spider. You yarned
it up all around you. And when I say 'in the end', you're what now?
35? This is the end, son. This is the end. You'll have none other
than the self-hatred, the regrets and the solitude, the interminable
waiting for a message which will never come, and you know it will
never come. You'll have your books, which you'll grow slowly to
despise, the writing which you will learn to detest and day after day
you won't do anything else but this, read and write, read and write.
And what you will write will be good, but compared to what it could
have been, well, that's the thing: they're incomparable. The
mediocrity you've always tried to shun and ward off, you'll end up to
your neck in it. This is where your intelligence is leading you. I
don't deny you're an intelligent person, but you're socially awkward,
have always been awkward. Pretended to be ok and smart, but the
ill-at-easeness was gnawing at your guts each time you met someone
nice. You'll never be the one you're pretending to be. And none of
your friends should, upon your death, judge you for the lies and the
pretence, for you never really got to know yourself. Deep down, you
were fucked up from the very beginning. You had no chance. Also, your
friends asked way too much from you, but they knew where you'd been,
and back. You're good enough to empathise, to put yourself into
people's shoes, yet and because you can't be in your own shoes, you
can't know what you feel because you've never been shown how to
listen, how to look, how to love. In essence you pay a total
attention to the rest of the world, and keep none for yourself. The
first one who dropped down on you is yourself. Your averageness
couldn't save you: you had to be mediocre in order to survive, but
now the mediocrity has caught up with you, and you're dying.
Miserably, at that. Your hands hurt so bad you won't tell anyone.
Your teeth are all crooked because you haven't got any money to fix
them. You can barely pay off your debts. Your family hardly ever
calls you. Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying you're a failure. Some
of what you wrote, and all of what you will pen in the few months
before your death are going to mark this century. But you will leave
your imprint as an inadequate, uncomfortable-in-his-own-skin man
whose ambitions were always foiled, who always failed to make an
impression deep enough to have someone stay by his side. A
second-order mind in a third-rate world. You will be the last
Romantic ever to roam this earth, with a splendid posthumous career.
[...] Look at all those lies you said meaning to embellish your
quotidian in people's eyes! Let me tell you: people are no fools.
You're a see-through. Your life was sad enough as it was, there was
no need to pour more syrupy schmaltz on top of it. But you didn't
want to settle for anything less than pure, antique tragic. And some
of the things that happened are nothing short of that – tragic –
but the tinnitus rings on, son. You can pretend not to hear it, yet
it echoes and vibrates and destroys. There, some unseen-before chaos
inside of you, and I can tell, I've seen a few of those myself,
within and without. There is no other way this can end up. You know
it, son, I can see it in your eyes that you've known all along how it
would end up. I'm not saying you won't need a great dose of liquid
courage to achieve that, but it's all for the best. As much for you
as for us. We can't spend whatever time we spend worrying about you,
we have families to take care of, occupations to pursue, destinies to
fulfil. Yours was a done deal a long, long time ago. You were not
born to last. You've just kept on postponing it, even avoiding it, by
some strange tweak of fate. But in the meantime you've written for
the generations to come a simple message: don't waste your time on
earth, just abre los ojos, hermanos, hermanas, and let the
convoluted pseudo-Romantics perish in the flame of forgery, for there
never was another Romantic after Keats but you. You know the world
will be a better place without a tortured poet to heal and nurture.
You're broken past mending, and we can't afford your breaking anyone
else...you've already done enough damage as it is, haven't you. You
know she could have remained at your side, she could have endured
your whimpering had you not cast her away for the third time. You
knew that, but you couldn't help, could you. You saw she suffered
staying with you, and you couldn't stand it. Ultimately, you were
right to break up, for she had had time to renew herself, to rebuild
what you had unwittingly and unwillingly torn down. You're like a
wrecking ball, son, like an asteroid. Poor girl. But you had the
sense not to inflict your self upon anyone else, and you'll pull
ourself out of harm's way. Hell is paved with good intentions, you'll
soon realise that. Your pacing to and fro will cease, your whiling
away the time will also come to an end, much to our benefit. Your
watching other people having fun, moving on in their life, wondering
when it'll happen to you, all this will stop. The questioning will
stop. The longing, the pain too. And you know you'd make a bad monk,
probably not the worst, for some have set precedents unlikely to be
matched, but as you've been averagely bad at almost anything you've
ever done...it stands to reason that you won't stand out being a bad
monk. I wish you the best, son. This is going to be hard, let's face
it, but you have the guts, you've always had the guts. You've
shilly-shallied in your time, but not this once, and we both know
you'll be brave facing the black one, and I don't know why, but
you've never feared her, like you had come to terms with her before
the terms were even defined. Perhaps that makes you the bravest of
us, perhaps. Now come, it is time.”
