Life and principles of a gentleman in disguise
Life is a trip through coarse roads and absolute endings. We, unconscious travelers, change suits and hats when getting off at each road station, stepping on each new train and greeting all new companions with polite sarcasm. We don’t do it because of malice, but for the sake of fashion; like everybody else.
My neighbor, in the red-laced undergarment, looks at my eyes with lust. She puts on the dark blue suit to go to work, and the worn out nightgown to watch television with her dull husband. I only recognize her, if she goes in red lace, because then, I’m naked.
Life is a theater where we all play leading characters. Some of us succeed, others don’t. Monosyllable lines in a successful life are envied by million of people longing for an opportunity. We all want to be in God’s grace and/or in the Devil’s, in case that the final judgment myth holds true. In the meantime, we obsess with egocentric, and selfish thoughts to feel accomplished. And we don’t do it because of malice, but for the sake of fashion; everybody else does it. (Hold that thought and your positive energy, because my neighbor will knock at my door tonight while her husband breaks his back on the midnight shift.)
Life could be a well-told story with a gruesome and unavoidable end, or it could be a fairytale, where with a humid kiss, we reincarnate in the son of a president or in a dog. I know about some people that cast themselves in sexy flicks full of violence, adult language and ten Oscar nominations to attract and trap audiences; and of others with few bad edited and silent frames that nobody wants to watch.
Life is so delightfully uncontrollable that a lonesome grasshopper could become, with a mundane touch, a symphony director inside our fantasies of giant ants. Nobody is to thank for or blame for. It is fashion, (and put a good face to bad times that my neighbor is already here.)
Life, ladies and gentlemen, is a circus full of clowns, illusionist, talented pets and harlequins. They make you laugh and cry; or they laugh and cry comfortably behind their masks and their red-laced undergarments, dark blue suits, and tattered nightgowns. Nobody does it because of malice, but for the sake of fashion. And everybody has done it since Pandora opened the box, since Eve bit the fruit, at least, since I was born.