Shit in… shit out

.

In each night I realise that, I slowly let my brain melt a little each day with somebody else’s message carried by the cathode ray tube, that shines behind the view screen in a borrowed living room.
Not a easy thing to live everyday exchanging some words in trade for some food and shelter, or kindness. Where is my kindness?
I think I left it on top of the refrigerator, on a house I once lived. It was quite cold close to that refrigerator.
Colder than the refrigerator itself!
One might think that the purpose of the refrigerator, in the former mentioned mansion was to keep the shadows of the walls from freezing to death, in such an inauspicious environment.
I am not going back there to get it. My self-esteem is also trapped there, somewhere, once some chapter of the past where all was an illusion in the hall of mirrors.
So, I wonder now, in the land of the mortals, who, like myself prey on the souls of those who seek for attention, whose thirst is relieved by sharing a shoulder, a smile and just a few hours of sincere comprehension.
The disease of attention spreads quickly, if one forgets that the road goes both ways, and that what comes in, must go out somewhere.
It is like that process I learn in audio school. You can only improve so much, even with all that machinery at your disposal, there is not a voice enhancer that will make any Joe be an ultimate superstar. Shit in… shit out… they say, the machine can only boost whatever crap you feed into.
And so is life. If for a life a person is fed crap in the form of sentences, we should not expect that the finest heir to Shakespeare thrown is right there, ready to be. We better expect him, not to be.
I have been eating the cathode ray matter for so long, that I can already be the shit spitter. My goodness, I should be careful, or I might be the living proof of such urban legend as the own of the shitty boy, whose head is full of shit. The two possibilities in the legend were, either a fly will enter, or shit will come out thru the hole that was once called mouth.
Disgusting, I hear your skulls shouting. Indeed, it is disgusting.
Do I have any potential than not to complain about life and write about it, sporadically, as if I was a worthy writer?
Who wants to read the words of someone who complains?
Hell, I sure do not. That is why I put them here, so that they live my brain alone, and that if I might see them again, I can feel relieved that the shit the was in, is now out.
I guess I have been enduring with lots of this.
Time to do something about it.
May be a stroll to the bathroom of the mind, where one can purify the thought channels from such revolt.
If only it was as simple as wishful thinking.

cocasman@zmail.pt