It’s not my fault, no.
It’s not my fault that nobody makes me talk, it’s not my fault.
It is not my fault that someone else takes what I think and say, and decides for themselves what they want to say, it is not my fault that after I write something, someone thinks that I am doing who knows what negative thing.
It’s not my fault that no one looks me in the face after I’m wrong. If instead of reasoning with me they only had the ability to cut me off, without ever listening and understanding a shit, without ever understanding that on the other side there was a human being, with fucking weaknesses and frailties.
That when I make a mistake once, they are all pissing me off, forcing me to isolate myself, to think badly of myself, destroying my mind and life… while I have really been the patient and understanding person.
And it’s not my fault, if I find myself being more detached, becoming in ways I don’t even like, thinking I’m hurting and scaring somehow, to the point that whatever I do, it’s not good.
And I have no other way to live and to overcome or elaborate things, if not by writing, and look, keep looking at me, still do not understand a shit.
Because in any case you will only take that part that suits you from this speech, at convenience, to be used against me.
Because they are all cowards here. Nobody has the courage to confront, confront, talk.
And I don’t like to keep thinking about it either, but it’s not my fault.
Because everything could end if violence was not chosen, but the real one, the only one really used.
The minutes, yes.
It is not my fault if I have acted in a way, if they created me like this, in short. If I’m a monster, I didn’t choose to be.
Because I wanted to be something else.
It’s not my fault,
if I have become the reflection of the fear of others, I have become them, the one they are afraid to see within themselves.
Because I’ve always been better than many, at understanding many things, even themselves.
Because inside I can see myself, without fear.
And I can do it for others, maybe it’s a vice, maybe that’s why people then run away.
Along with the fact that they want to impose their point of view on mine, and things break, and I understand that, yes.
But it is not my fault.
It makes me laugh to continue to be looked at, judged, when it was enough to talk, it was enough to learn to live in this world, and not act like spoiled sclerati.
Perhaps they have accustomed you to having what you wanted, without opening your mind to the fact that there are those who think differently, that you need to have respect for different opinions.
Or maybe they told you about my past, which will be fictionalized, inflated, as you are doing today, always me, the “beast”.
And perhaps also because of what I have changed, perhaps there is always some “root” to take care of, but I have seen much more than many people, who looking at them seem capable only of complaining, remaining in their fairy world, without never understand suffering and I miss work.
Easy to say: “There is no such thing as love”, when you are a poor man who is kept rich.
You know, you have never been given the privilege of being normal or poor. You have never understood what it means to have, without being able to give.
For you it was enough to receive, if you think about giving, you only understand that you have to offer something to drink.
But don’t do that anyway: I, on the other hand, even if it happened a little, I helped people around the cities where I lived, to carry something heavy inside the house, in shops, helping them to get up, or to keep a door open.
If you do it, you will make it sound like they should kiss your feet.
I do it because I like to give.
I am exactly that lover, that friend you would like to have, the one you women are desperately looking for, but in the wrong places.
And it’s not my fault if you don’t understand,
it’s not my fault that you wanted to lose me.
It’s not my fault I keep thinking about it, it’s not my fault I want more.
And it’s not my fault if I really go away, and in fact it will be.
And it’s not my fault if you’ve read, and haven’t understood shit for the umpteenth time.
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Lo scrittore Volante 