About Love

To Hilda

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Everything begins with castration – Freud and the impossibility of human beings to reach total satisfaction – which at first doesn’t reach me because I have wet hands, hoping to be completely satisfied. I’m on this until I’ve had enough, choosing to grief the excesses, the greatest orgasm of the world. I accept being ordinary, one more, a body that desires like any other.

I’m aware of owning a ridicule finitude that suffers the indigestion of images: mine, the world, and the staging’s of desire. The calligraphy of my nightly encrypted dreams is a sign that I hear myself when sleeping.

The end of my greatest enjoyment brings me lack but also a relocation of spaces – the return of my singularity in small enjoyments. Going back to writing (my name) and feeling pleasure with the words lacking in my mouth. Addressing any sound to your hearing.

Or, in another way, also: when you don’t let go of my hand and I understand that love is just that.