MENTAL LOAD

There are some things that sadden me and at the same time enrage me, frighten me, disgust me, the way victims are counted, like a division by zero where everything equals everything, worse, one dead person is worth twenty thousand, depending on color, ethnicity, language, religion, and then something else, this habit of putting music to a gesture, as if we were divine when we are objectively nothing but grovelers, a sort of rather complex tube with inputs and outputs, the obvious law of the ultra-rich, as if they were untouchable heroes, as if there were no alternative, as if they too could not be guillotined to punish them for their recklessness, and the incessant words that accumulate in my head like a clogged bathtub. I’m tired of it all, like the children, the dishes, the diaries, the make-up, the professional ambition, the sense of a job well done.

We’re animals with a mental load. We don’t have the lightness of birds. Animals don’t talk, not because they can’t talk, but because they don’t think it’s necessary to be happy.