It Will Be Kept Secret

Pleasure, it has been censured, cut off like the sixth finger on a hand. Except those who are missing a limb will attest to feeling it itch from time to time. How is that for an analogy? However early has our domestication began, the truth is we can't help but equate pleasure with pain. Not that we're masochists, of course. Pain is there, regardless, and the surest way to experience the worst kind is by not engaging pain that makes us grow. Otherwise, you'll know pain. Sure, it bothers us not being able to light up a cigarette but it is far more painful to endure chemotherapy, the removal of a lung or living the remaining miserable years hooked to a respirator. (Do not resuscitate me, please; pull the plug, if I just wake up one day and can't decide for myself. ) So, quitting is the logical choice, if only one accepts to endure the pain quitting signifies. It makes sense to go through planned suffering and come out of such experience wiser, adapt to the wild outdoors. It's kind of painful to gain muscular definition, to maintain an active lifestyle; but more painful and quite pathetic too, to eat too much and do nothing all day long. No one is really saying that everyone should exercise; everyone, I hope, knows that. Knowledge nowadays is of common property, you should have to know where to look. Look, you don't have to know too much to know that there are others who know it better than you. You don't have to be smart; just curious. Plus, naiveness is valued in this idiotic society. American life tends to idolize the idiot; in High School, dumb kids ranked high in coolness. Us, we were classified as "nerds". Revenge must be swift.
Of course, I'm not that much of a nerd. Not nowadays, anyway. (Presence matters, in more than one respect). In fact, I do believe that there are three dead brujos (witchdoctors) that live through me. You may find it laughable, but one of them actually writes for me. Rarely do I come off as witty in a conversation except if I'm in the presence of a very intelligent woman: and there are oh so many hot intelligent women out there. I keep my mouth shut, I crack the trademark half-ass smile, and I lay back. I welcome others with an open and unbounded energy, I recognize their spirit. Not in esoteric terms, but instead in real life measures; let's supposed that human beings were quantifiable properties and hence comparable: we'll match others' movements, mirror them, experience them without thinking too much of what they actually say. Before someone opens their mouth, their heart has been spilled.
O.K., I know you want to hear about the three brujos. You want to hear about ghosts. Superstition..? I think not. That is what some who obstruct the light and want others to stumble in darkness. Think of yourself as a source of light. The question is, what would you be? A candle? A lamp? A city? The stars? The sun, perhaps? O.K, let's go for the sun. Let's not be too greedy. A cool sun, at that. The first brujo writes for me. Another follows me at work and keeps me unmoved around the torrent of gorgeous women that work there and focus on the job at hand. It looks unnatural and hypocritical but they pay me for it. Until my writing career launches (look for my books at lulu.com, by my name as an author, Boris Amar. Go ahead, Google me. You know you want to, just for literary curiosity, of course.
(Or, just click on the promotional buttons on the main page, located right under the category of Damian's Interests.)
Do not fear I'll bore you with maxims and lectures, instead I go to the most gorgeous topics directly. Lots of violence, romance, and sex. Basically, my experiences, in excruciating detail. No nastiness, and these are characters, don't forget. What can I possibly say about you that is interesting? Stay tuned.
0k, I'll come clean: you're in it. If ever you crossed my path, chances are you ended up in one of my books.
Here's the idea: I plan to add writings to these two already published books, like a rock band. Have the same name, make different albums. Though there are only two titles, they contain things that have gone on in my life as early as six months ago. Don't worry: I don't use real names and we have the impunity of calling fiction. But, quite frankly, you can call it whatever the fuck you want. (Such blog does exist, www.whateverthefuckyouwant.blogspot.com. In it, you'll find a copy of this very blog entry, and many other things I couldn't possibly have written. Could have I?
Well, whatever the case. I plan to delete this writing as soon as possible. Luckily, you read it. It's okay if you skipped some. Or if you chose not read it. And even if you read it constantly. I am only amusing myself.