I can make it. Or maybe I can’t. But I’ll have to try doing it, one moment or another, or else I’ll forever live with the feeling that I don’t know. That I’m not sure of what I can and cannot do, what are my limits, that tomorrow I’ll discover the truth. That I’m not yet ready and by no means sufficiently prepared to face the task.

Living is a serious business. Or maybe it isn’t. Some make a lifetime worth of profit out of it, others just can’t quite be as successful as expected (By others? By themselves? By certain standards?). It’s not definitive, though, so one has to wonder why it’s so serious. (The ant does die at some point, after all, no matter how much profit she has made during summer.) Perhaps it’s because life is so present, so offensively here and now that it becomes a serious burden.

Perhaps it’s because it’s so possible and blank that the one who has received it cannot fight the need to make something out of it, creating endless seriousness for said life. Perhaps, even, it is the fear that has faced the dream that makes living such a grave thing, this goddamn delta between two things that are outside the margins of our river. Life is a variable and no matter what others say or what evidence shows, it is always your responsibility to make something out of it. You, the jury, will judge and execute this. Such a serious business.

Other’s will screw me all over. Or maybe they won’t. Life really isn’t just ones business; everybody wants a piece of your success. And you always want a piece of theirs. The kiss is the eve of the spit, and kisses are so sweet it is impossible to go by without them. You are not your own judge, others will judge all the time, even if just inside your head. There’s something so weird about being someone, about having been given a life and carrying it around with so many others walking around you, their lives in hand too, nudging you gently – and not so gently -, from time to time. They are just like you, but they are themselves, and all what they take from you, they’ll give you back, somehow. All of it. Love.

I know myself. Oh, wait, I actually don’t. I don’t know my exact limits, perhaps they don’t really exist, but the truth is that I’m not yet fully acquainted with all my own details. I know how to be, to simply be, but I don’t know what being means, I don’t know what doing means nor do I really know what saying something is, not at all. But “simply doing” ain’t gonna cut it, it’s not enough. It kills the feeling of regret, of being completely lost, the buzzing “or maybe” inside my head. But it doesn’t explain shit to me, and that’s kinda not cool.

But I’ve GOT to do it. Because I can, because I want, because I said so. I need to do without explanation, test before analyzing, act without so much worry because this sort of thing eats you up at some point. No one ever has much time to actually analyze any of the tests, attempts, first trials, but all are (un)lucky enough to have others do it for them, dead or not yet dead. Not that this is important. Life really is serious, I can make it. Anyone can; everybody does, in fact. (And I’ll want a fancy tomb, too). But there’s this delta - dreams and fear, birth and death, others and self - that can be filled with kisses and spit; beauty at every spot.