"Implosion" by Nelson Arts of London
I am deeply sorry, but today I shall expunge a
few things on thee. And to do so, some questions are necessary. Today I see
thee much better than four months ago. If thou askedst if there is regret, I
might say yes, there is. For I have looked deep into thy eyes without knowing
thee properly. And I have made such a commitment. Lord, I shouldn't have. I
have given away my trust and my friendship with no doublethinking. I was
fragile, I know. In a brave new world. But that was the moment I betrayed
myself, for I thought I could be able to keep myself resolute and distant even in
the loneliest moments. However, it was there, in this freezing solitude, that
I've behaved as a child, and then I brought thee to my life, to my routine.
Today I see thee differently. Well.
It vexes me the fact that thou art always
lecturing somewhere about something, or art trying to teach everyone around,
for I do not live with people like these. My friends are not like that. I don't
put myself in this position, I never bring out any lecture on subject that I
(may) master. Because I consider this extremely ridiculous. I understand that
yes, indeed, everyone's got diverse kinds of knowledge, but we can only teach
when somebody wants to learn. And when thou showest thy knowledge, talk'st on thy
studies and wisdoms - it only shows a fail attempt. In the very beginning I
thought it was arrogance. I reckoned thou wert considering thyself superior,
wiser. Today I have pity on thee. For thou worriest too much with being
noticed. Wantest to draw attention regardless the means. Wouldst like to be
seen as relevant, strenuous (considering all thy endeavour thou hast shown to
reach thy status), intelligent. Doest not thou see this is the wrong path?
Doest not see that when thou pushest, thou makest us see exactly the opposite?
But it is all okay now. I know thou likest to teach and give random lessons
when no one's requested, I know it pleases thee to talk louder and to
demonstrate thou art acquainted with some specific point more than the others.
I wonder if thou hast observed how much people around do NOT do that. Hast thou
seen how ones around thee, who yield knowledge beyond thou canst imagine, do
not grab themselves? Hast thou seen it?
Today I see thee differently. I see thou art
hard working. Thou hast limited abilities, though. Thou appliest thyself highly
to the studies and hold'st information, but thou doest not know how to create.
Thou art not imaginative, and this might bother thee more that I can figure.
Thou mayest feel empty, incapable of innovation, incapable of leaving behind
such an average existence. For that is what very haunts thee: the mediocrity.
To live always in the middle. No creation, no cleverness, no originality. Yes,
this is saddest. And maybe that is why thou behavest this way. But I will tell
you what: I figure thee. Even knowing thou hast some limitations, some
difficulties with reasoning and with the understanding of the world and the people
that live in it, I get these pain and sorrow of thine. However thou must
perceive something, my friend: not everybody is brilliant, but all should be
humble. And when one is mediocre, it is needed to be humble.
Therefore we have struck enough. I can't bear
this lack of humbleness anymore. To see the world spinning around thee. To wait
for people to serve on thee. To think thou art somehow above, for thou knowest
how to dress. All thy shallowness arises when thy only sentence in the mourning
is asking me what I am wearing, or what have I thought about thy vesture. It
drags me, it feels poor. Thou doest not provide an enhancing talk. Thou canst
not add anything to people's lives. And that happens because thou doest not
draw anything from anyone. Thou wouldst never enrich from one's experience, for
thou canst learn from that. Thou art incapable of learning empirically. And
what to say when thou triest to pull off that accent? Oh Lord, I think.
Critizest me so much, soundest so laughable then! Thou canst force something
thou hast not dominated yet. And when thou usest thy so-damn-acute smell to complain
on someone or something's, it only blooms thy childish and spoiled sides. And
it reduces thee to it: a child. Thou doest not act thy age.
But none of these things annoys me more than
all the criticism and intolerance. Why canst thou tolerate the different? Why
canst thou show respect to others' likings? Why doest not thou believe in
people? What is so wrong with thee?
Answer me, why? Why doest thou find impossible
that someone has a different style than thine? Why doest thou think that every
man with the same condition as us shall be exactly like us? Canst thou see we
are different? I am not better or worse, just different. And I couldn't
understand when thou offendedest me so many times. It pleases thee to insult
people. Thou art sick. And when thou feltest jealous? I had pity. For thou
feltest thou hadest a strong and durable relation. Today I have only pity. I
see how empty are all the relations of thine. I see how weak are the bonds thou
buildest. And how nobody ever takes thee seriously.
At last, I would like to say that thou hast
made part of the most unpalatable category of people in the world: the
braggers. Thou bragest about everything, every hour. And thou wantest to know
what is worse? Thou canst not brag. It is painful when I see thou doing it.
And I remained shut. But today no
more. Cause I've seen it is
impossible to bear. It is impossible to love someone you hate.
