“It is useless to write new realistic novels. We generally know where we stand in relation to reality and don’t care to know any more.” Michel Houellebecq
Wasting time staring at screens instead of someone’s eyes; keeping distance instead of getting closer and the endless muteness in the repetitive blurred air that spoke the wrong words; Everything I was writing about was a cliché, such as the society full of fake images thinking wealth and beauty looked so good together. Counting days and hours to finish a hateful job, to meet with a distant soul and go out drinking with strangers; day by day, year after year until we got to the end of this life, emptied out of our essence, remembering vague moments of a dream, composed moments of pleasure and too much time spent looking away.
I looked down on people without values, I was probably one of them – chasing feelings was as vain as chasing gold. The mere sound of a false escape was the ultimate weakness – thoughts wandering in and out, coming back with misinterpreted visions of reliving past in the future and failing consistently with the sensation of an all-consuming emptiness. The slow degradation of our bodies, our careers and humanity was increasing rapidly, too rapid to catch any youthful faces leading a lazy, shame-filled, carefree life.
Suddenly all the pointlessness and indifference of the city turned around and disclosed the compelling, unnecessary urge to live and stay awake for as long as I could to see deeper into the obscurity of this so-called civilization, the lost small and great souls looking at one another, clueless to the withheld future from them – I kept seeing things, some of them might have not been there at all, but I saw them as clearly as I saw my own soul among them.