Broken glasses

My new glasses are a beautiful piece of design. Wooden frames and sophisticated and sleek curves. I miss showing off as I used to do when I was a 16 year old. After a while, you get tired of growing up. Nothing makes sense, people show off, but then they don’t show off in the same naive beautiful youthful way. Grown ups talk about beautiful experiences and beautiful apartments/friends/jobs/lovers. All as if they were a mere collection of little periapts or, even worst, some sort of social currency. They shamelessly pretend that they are doing fine, that happiness is within and with them regularly. IF you dare to criticize such statements and demonstrations of (somehow awkward) happiness, then you are a broken soul, like a pair of new broken wooden glasses, you work just fine but you don’t fit quite well. You are the one who cannot be happy and you are the one with a disease. You get isolated and thrown into an asylum because you didn’t convey with the idea of having/celebrating the contract between you and your new glasses, you and your new apartment, you and your new lover, you and your new values, you and your never-stopping consumerism of people and things that is insatiable and suicidal of your own original self. 

But of course, the crazy one is me. I broke my glasses the first week I got them, and I didn’t give a fuck. All the lame ones around me, still laugh at my pair of broken glasses. They claim that I must not love myself because I don’t replace them immediately. Such an eloquent young man, from an eloquent young society shouldn’t be seen in such a precarious situation. I am a broken soul, as my broken glasses. But, the people around me are more broken and rotten inside. They call me ugly an I stay quiet. They call me dick and I stay quiet. They yell at me because I am quiet, and I stay quiet.  I am a very raw and rugged man. Insults from this breed of people, from those who celebrate their existence and their worth by defending and chanting anthems in favour of their property rights instead of their human rights, don’t have an effect on me no more. Their jobs, lovers, apartments, clothes, teeth, diplomas, etc. seem rather faint. They are nothingness, they are egotistical selfs. Brute narcissists. Personas but not personalities. 

They don’t give a damn about their rights to sport some broken glasses, show off their broken souls, seek and feed their truthful self. The self that has no shame in recognizing pain. The one who wants to learn and experience things. The self that’s wild and cocky and loves to show off what they are, even if they’re naïve,  ugly, or dumb. They don’t love the human beings they are. They don’t defend their right to be human. They cannot worry about things as their “abstract” right of being human. They are a sum, they are accumulators, they see their life experiences as a bank account. They just wanna keep doing business as usual, no time to worry about stupid shit. 

But, once again, I am the crazy one. No, no, no, better yet,  I am the fucked up and wicked one. I talk about love as if it didn’t exist. I talk about love as if it was the best. I change my mind and have regrets. I stink in the mornings and I stink at nights. I mispronounce some words and try to correct yours. I have all the flaws and all the virtues. I cry and then I cry again. I love people till the end of the world. I give it all and then even more. I leave and walk away from people. I am a broken soul like my broken glasses, and I love to walk sporting them in the street. I am no bitter man since I know I can have fun and lots of joys. But yet, once again, my joy is not MY new job, nor my new life, nor my new set of values, nor my new pussy at night. I am a simple man and, even though once I was young, and wanted all in life, I realize, nothing is mine. And now, you can go and defend all your life, all of the acquaintances you have, all the body fluids your bed has collected, all the jobs that you’ve had, all the hearts you’ve broken up. Count them all, summed them up. Collect all of that, because you are a bankrupt soul and I am a broken one. Keep doing business as usual. Extract from me and from others our attention,our kindness, and our truthful love to feed your lack of such. All what we’ve given you, all that you’ve taken, you might forget. When you needed to cry and you call that guy, or that friend, all of that, you cannot keep because you didn’t invest it back, you just used it all and now you are fixed again. 

By Eric Bauman 

maybe she’s gone and I can’t resurrect her,
the truth is she doesn’t need me to protect her…