What if this life is not the life I really wanted? What if I really did not have a vocation?--and I only imagined or thought, even created the illusion itself, that I had one. What if I am not happy with my relationships?--that it is no longer love which enjoins me to others but merely custom and convenience. What if I am not happy with myself?--and that these smiles are the smiles of despair, ready give it all up at the slightest provocation: it is so easy to die. What if what I cautiously call "my faith" is really non-belief, even wrong, even a bastard faith? What if I hate life and imagine being otherwise?--but am only afraid to admit it. What if there is no reason for the optimism that the best years are still to come?--and that in reality the best moments of my life have long passed, and what remains of my days will be repetition at best, and if not an inevitable tragedy no god can redirect. What if all is really vanity?--should I not then indulge in lust, pleasure, extravagance since there is no more point in reining in my passions and always chastising myself. What if the point was really to take than to give, that there's really no good in being good? What if God is dead and everything is permitted? What if those close to me and those who supposedly regard me well, really despise me and think me arrogant; it is easier to deceive friends than strangers. What if I am really alone? What if I really want to be alone.
|Victorio Edades. Joan in a Red Dress.|