Original Italian version here.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Stardust a lost alien
All rights reserved.
https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=19058140, by Tomwsulcer
Tick tock the clock goes. I glance at it, briefly, while I walk along the street, swift, slipping among the people. Among these shit bastards. It goes so fast, eating away the seconds of my life, which will last less than a blink of an eye. I wonder if these people who race and struggle around me have a vague notion of the frailty of their existence. They have such short lives – we have such short lives – that one would think they’d want to spend them trying to make the best of it. And instead, they usually spend them getting on one another’s tits, doing everything they can to damage, debase themselves. Busting my balls. I cannot stand many of them. They’re hopeless, mass-produced articles of their society, without whichever critical sensibility, thought independence; they lack even the will of living their life to the fullest and seem to be driven only by a dull and basic survival instinct.
My thoughts are being drawn to Laila. She, instead, she loves them. She’s patient. She wants to change the world, slowly, at the rhythm of these creatures, with their schedule, with their giant horrific invading imperfections. But she doesn’t like much to speak about their imperfections and weaknesses, she likes better to concentrate on what’s good, she says, she likes better to see the humanity in each one of them, even if sometimes they commit horrible things. But always human they remain. Right. It’s exactly this the problem. And instead she likes it, she really loves this thing that she calls humanity. Which moves forwards at such a slow pace it looks like it’s never advancing. Which when it takes a step forward then takes three backward. But Laila doesn’t know that tick tock goes the clock. Laila doesn’t know that there’s no time. That we’ve never had time.
At the bus stop a man in formal clothes look at me with a mixture of disdain and condescension, from behind his oval glasses. He holds his overnight bag tight and stretches his lips. I must really make him sick. He must think I am a parasite of society, even though I bust my ass. And I, go figure, I think the parasite is him. He must think I am a degenerate not to be trusted. And I think he is full of shit. I get on the bus, feeling the gaze of the man on my back. I am the one whom he’d never allow his daughter to go with. I sneer. I really wouldn’t like to be his daughter, assumed he has one. A couple of persons notice me smiling to myself and they make odd faces. I try to assume a neutral attitude. I must get out of this habit: people realize that there something wrong in me.
This romanticizing of the exasperating slowness of the human improvement gets fucking up my nose. Everyone making it seem such grandness, this sort of collective spiritual path. More than walking through it, they’re dragging themselves. And the truth is that it’s all bullshit. There’s only a small group ahead, and the others behind digging their heels in. These people hate to go forward, and they hate the group ahead too. Laila doesn’t want to speak about it – none of the pretty doves like her wants to talk about it – but the people she wants so much to help in all likelihood loathe her. So romantic. Laila doesn’t want to speak about it because it makes her feel better. But I don’t feel the need of feeling better. Or maybe, more than anything else it’s that I can’t.
These people, if they could, would rip me to pieces. A woman with a veil scowls at me; surely she considers me immoral. And to think that I wouldn’t have anything against her, or against the one who maybe is her husband, who scowls at me even more with a hint of threat. And yet, if they could they would rip me to pieces. Me, and Laila, and all those like her and all those like me. How can one help someone who wants to destroy you, Laila? And tick tock goes the clock and we could come to be so high up and achieve so much more if it wasn’t for their dead weight, for their constantly putting spokes in our wheels; and tick tock goes the clock and the life of the oppressed are channelled and their wings crushed and their possibilities scattered in the wind. Because of them.
A well-dressed woman looks at me raising her eyebrows, and even if I pretend to look at my phone I see out of the corner of my eye that she stares at me at intervals. There’s also another who stares at me, a macho man with a hardass air, an ignorant, one of those who can’t put two words in a row without crucifying grammar.
Tick tock goes the clock, we don’t have time Laila. How can one change people, Laila? You say that one has to be patient, that things will go on, but Laila do you know how many years, and decades and centuries and millennia have gone by? Tick tock goes the clock and things remain unchanged. But not this time, you say, this time it’s going to go well. Really, Laila? Do you think it’s not possible to go back? Do you think it’s not already happening? Why this time should it be different? We must change people in good time Laila. Because I am alive now. Because you’re alive now. Because we all are alive now and we have the right to live, and live well. Your sentimentality, the stride of the elephant, the windy and long path of progress, it’s all very beautiful, but life is here and now. I am here and now. And tick tock goes the clock I’ve got no time to wait. I’ve got no time to wait for these people.
The brute keeps on watching me. I watch him too. His mouth stretches in a mocking smile, scornful. He despises me. I am the inferior one, the wrong one, the opposite of him. Another whore who would tear me apart if he could.
How can one change people in good time, Laila? By brainwashing? By means of violence? With torture? Treating them with kindness and condescension, as if they were mentally deficient people, thing that they actually are? With sweet words and tenderness, like you do Laila? But you know that it doesn’t work. Organizing them in an almost scholastic way, sending them to class? Ding dong, class for unscrupulous capitalists with the overnight bag. Ding dong, class for elegantly dressed women who indeed are really respectable. Ding dong, class for misogynist Muslims. Ding dong, class for sprogs who play the little bullies. Ding dong, class for Christians who get an apoplectic fit if you mess up with their roles of man and woman. Ding dong, class for right wing racists. Ding dong, class for the ignorant.
Ding dong. The bus stops. The macho man gets off, and I follow him. I do it automatically, without thinking. It’s late in the evening. I feel good, despite all this. I like the evening, it’s relaxing, prelude of a night which brings terror, emptied of humanity and full of creatures of the same substance of shadow. They make me scream, in my sleep, but I’d willingly run into their arms. It looks like they’re hiding in the corners, now, below the arches of the front doors, peeking at me and shooting vicious glances at the ignorant one. He proceeds, and I follow him walking fast and silent. I don’t think he’s noticed me. If he has, he’s not attaching importance to me. And why should he?
Tick tock goes the clock and I haven’t got time, I haven’t got time. Life flows and runs and I haven’t got time, nobody has. I haven’t got time for you, brute. I haven’t got time for your change. I am here, now, and you are just one of the many, the copy of a copy of a copy… He turns into an alley, and I behind. The sound of his heavy steps covers the light one of mine. A gust of cold breeze blows, which makes me feel even more alive, even more present. Ah, I love this life. And I haven’t got time for you. I slip my knife out of my pocket. The cold metal against my skin sends an electric discharge through my body. I lengthen my stride to bring myself nearer to him. Behind his back.
Tick tock goes the clock, you have to die before I do.