(link to artist)
THOUGHTSI hear them almost every night. Most of the time they wake me up while crawling. They pass by, only seemingly disinterested. They creep through my hair as they move across the pillow; they caress my thoughts with their thin and stinging filaments. They whisper to each other, they talk about me. Everything so well orchestrated. A performance reacted with disarming cadence, depriving me of my sleep, offensive and humiliating.
They are ireful. I am sure that if they could they would leave me alone, abandoning this shabby place. But they cannot do it. In fact, I suspect they tremble at the thought. Why don’t they leave me alone? Why don’t they grant me an honest chance of redemption? It would be good for them as well. How can they not understand it? Their craving for attention is the same that devours me from the inside.
Ten endless minutes to feel them slip next to me, one by one, hiding within the folds of the pillowcase. They will now move to the other room and begin their ritual, at the foot of the small table. I won’t do anything but stay here, lying down, my eyes lost chasing the cracks that intertwine in the plaster ceiling.
I can hear them whisper, their groans pushed upward with anger and frustration. They cry for their uselessness, for the inconsolable emptiness that is the absence of any raison d'être. I cannot see them from here, but I can picture them as they ask each other questions that will fall between their thoughts and mine. Muffled thuds that propagate through the darkest silence, barely rippling it.

I find it rather ironic that they would look at that table as if it were their salvation and, at the same time, they lacerate my ears with their contempt, wound my eyes with the naked and cold shape of my ineptitude. I wish I could scream to them: Will you ever understand? That table and I are one thing?
Ironic, yes. But something else as well. Painful. Because, eventually, their anger is my anger too. How could it be otherwise? I am their fount and they are my creative act. They are closer to me than they would ever be willing to accept; and who am I, if not both these half masks that cover my face. I am the source to which they struggle to ascend and the failure from which their suffering gushes, viscous and slow.
Isn’t it the same for everyone? Do we not turn our eyes with hope and fear towards those who hold the comprehensive knowledge of our destiny? What we hate and what we aspire to are two half masks concealing our face.
Do not consider yourself safe, in the warmth of your existence. You must know that it is for you that they crawl each night. For your devotion. They want you to lose yourself in pursuing them; that you feel, in the fog that already envelops you, their presence, tangible and real. If you believe in them, if you desire them, they will exist. They will have a place to live in, they will have a purpose, they will eventually become a memory. Who is ever going to care if they are or not a reflection of what once was true? To deceive is as much an act of those who lie as it is of those who believe.
Tomorrow morning I will sit at the table again. A cup of dark coffee with which to engage in my morning blabbering. The dark aroma that spreads through the rooms. On a new blank sheet, I will write about them. I will caress their faces, and smell their fears. I will understand their doubts, anddiscover their courage or unveil their cowardice. I will offer them another day. An ephemeral hope. Maybe I will write about you too, chasing you through your solitary existence, entangling you within the flat reality of a piece of paper. Then you will be mine too. You will come to torment my dreams. I will feel you, at night, while you are longingfor your salvation. You will then realize that you are nothing but a thought in someone else’s mind.