I don't know at what point I lost control of my life. I don't know if it was my fault or the karmic twists and turns of life.
What is certain is that that day, cornered in a hotel, after having taken the life of an entire family -whose story I will tell you someday-. It was when destiny taught me that it is perfect and leaves nothing in debt.
I was rioting in the bathroom of the room, hearing sirens, footsteps and propellers, when I decided I wanted to leave my legacy in words.
I searched desperately for a pen, a pencil, anything. But my seconds were numbered and I had to act fast. I found only a razor, knitting needles and a roll of duct tape.
So without fear of falling into cliché, I ended up writing in my own essence:
"Post-truth does not always give away the lie. Many times contexts mark certain actions to which morals are opposed.
In that case the smartest way to wipe your ass is to bluff about the improbable.
If you get cornered a lot, you shoot. But not just anyone, you shoot whoever can dodge it. It's just to make noise, to let them know that you have the gunpowder and the necessary blood to act.
But here comes the smart thing; never shoot at a vulnerable person, to cover your vulnerability.
The important thing about shooting to impress is just that.
The consequence of an unnecessary wound weighs heavily. Whether in guilt, in strategy, or in the mental setting you are in. It weighs and that is irrefutable.
"The bullet that does not reach its destination was never fired" or something like that, Churchill once said, or one of those.
And here comes the final stitch of my post-truth; if I don't believe the bullet will reach its destination, it doesn't. And if it does, it doesn't hurt.
And if it does, it does not hurt and if the recipient is damaged; it is drama.
Everyone lives in their own reality and I know, I swear I know, that all the gunpowder I threw, someday it will reach me.
But when it gets there it will not hurt me, the bullet will not kill me.
It's the drama I end up creating around it that will."
I didn't beg for anyone's forgiveness in writing this. I didn't need the charity of any sentimentally dysfunctional human, I know my actions and my contexts.
I understand how far I went and I know who I was.
But I'm not going to lie to you, I would have loved to have been able to finish writing those paragraphs before a whole platoon of armed men charged at my back.
Men who, with the purest and coldest cruelty, thought they were doing justice and ended up doing the same thing I did, and ironically, this time it was my blood that tarnished what there was to read.
