My dad asked me the other day why I did not write something about my mum, how she was, what I felt, and so on. I told him for me, the writing thing does not work that way, I said to him you have to be on the right mood to feel about writing, but I think he did not understand me (or at least I did not know how to explain myself). Now is almost 4am and I cant sleep because my mind keep bombing ideas and sentences, and that means now is the right time.
Life sucks, so does the world. The planet is a huge matrioshka of a few innocent souls cornered by a large amount of selfish motherfuckers, and every single one of those corrupted spirits hatches testicles or eggs, both with the innate ability to spread more selfishness around, so the Russian doll never fucking ends. Life sucks as I said, but she, arrogant as fuck, pretends she is not, throwing bones to us from time to time like if we were starving dogs. The bones have multiple shapes, like for example, a gig we have been waiting for for a long time, a touching movie that surprises us, an amazing trip to a very exotic country, or a clapping audience celebrating something we are involved in. Sometimes is sex, but you have to tick some of these boxes: being handsome, being funny, being intelligent, having loads of money, or being a piece of shit with no heart and some kind of power or authority.
Life is a predator, and we are the prey. Life is a brainless cannibal.
My mum died when she was only 71, she was kind, humble and funny. Malignancy was not part of her vocabulary at all until fucking cancer came. She was fit, she was active, she did everything at home as a standard woman of her generation still do, and even worked for this house-cleaning products brand, selling sprays and detergents to friends and neighbours. My mum was one of those innocent souls I mentioned before. No alcohol, no cigarettes, no vices... but she is gone. She had to go because life said so. Since then, I feel life is even more pointless than before and I do not forgive her. I will not. Life is idiot.
Life is cruel and violently unfair, and there is nothing we can do about it. “Suicide” someone says, but no, we can not commit suicide because of two reasons, the first one is (one more time) selfishness, there are millions of unfortunate animas in the planet who would do anything to live not one more time, but a few more minutes to amend mistakes made in life or just saying sorry, and the second one is almost as nasty as life itself is, basically, commiting suicide is an emotional blackmail, where the act of killing yourself would result in related harm for your loved ones, causing anxiety, depression, or even consequent suicides, so you decide not to go ahead because the idea of leaving a trail of guilt and pain behind you does not sound really attractive, to be honest. Fear could be a third reason if you are a Catholic, yes. I think suicide is considered sin, or something like that, right? (thanks religion)
My dad told me the other day I should write something about the way I felt about my mum loss, so I did. I wrote it in English because he does not speak and I do not want him to understand what I am saying. I guess he would expected something slightly different.