Confessions : Nothing Matters

Confessions : Nothing Matters

If anything, the past few days have allowed me to live the remaining days that I have in this city without rush. No plans, no nothing to follow, just taking each moment as it comes, without worries, without cares, cigarette on one hand, a hot mug of coffee on the right, experimenting, admiring the designs of smoke rings before they fade away.

Some friends tell me that I should go and write. I do not. I have all the time when I get home to do just that, and so I do take things easy.

For some reason, leaving makes me think of all that has transpired since I arrived here. And with each door of yesterday that I unlock, it then leads me to other doors, and other doors, and other doors, all reaching out to that chunk of memory we call the past.

As my friends have told me, I do have a colorful past. Please, do not be fooled by the word “colorful” though it is really that. It has the spectrum, and all the right red and dark and gray shades.

But then, if there is something that I realize these past few days, with me and my memories my only companion, it is this: nothing matters among them.

The past, my past that is. So what if I was once loved? So what if I was once happy? So what for all the things that I lost and the things that I found?

There is nothing about the past that matters. I do not know if I should be happy about this, or sad, but that’s how it is: it doesn’t matter how everything went before.

Because no matter how sweet or tragic things were in my life, its there, in the past. And for a good reason, the past is indeed dead.

With these few days spent in leisure for I know I would not have days like these when I get home, all that matters is how I live every single day after this hiatus is over.

Of course, I do have some use for the past: if anything, it’s my own personal sponge and I’m going to squeeze it of every last drop that I could, to use as water, as paint, as ink for what I have to finish. But that is all.

All that remains for me is to somehow make something worth the remaining time I have out of the garbage that is my past.

I do not know if I would endure. I do not know if I would finish it. I am afraid like I have never been before. But I have to go on, and so it, live the life I chose and sacrificed for, and die the death that is its payment.

Friends, this is how I am these days. All I know is that, after losing everything that I knew would make me happy, I should never lose the things that made me who I am: my madness, my shame, my despair, my stains.

All that matters is how I live each and every day of Project Life.

At least, I can still enjoy the remaining days in transition: between the past that doesn’t matte, and the future that may never be.

I’m tired.