When you feel guilty and know you're wrong, you know you need to do something about it. Then you are your own judge, your own executioner. There's something sinister about this mechanism that makes you aware of the fault but at the same time makes it seem unimportant—and if it doesn't matter, then perhaps it's okay as it is. But you know deep down it's not okay, so maybe there's a sadistic pleasure in self-harm. Torturing ourselves with guilt and then blaming external factors. It’s the fault of others, of fate, of distractions.

But what is important? Getting up early, working out, taking care of your physical appearance, eating well, doing a job that doesn’t suck just to pay the bills, spending money, investing money, traveling, making love, reading, writing, listening to music, playing an instrument, going to the cinema, and then being with other people because being alone is not good. Loners don't do well; they become myths because it's odd, but is it really that strange? They are simply honest and consistent with the selfishness that distinguishes us because, in the end, we don’t do things for others; we do them for ourselves. So why procrastinate? Maybe just to sit still, think about these things, write them down, and not do the other things, those that are supposed to be important.

But in the evening, when you're out, when the bottles open, when we drink, eat, judge, and are judged, the problem seems to disappear because appearances prevail and crush it. But the day after? The day after, you have an empty wallet, but then again, what even is money? What’s it good for? It comes and goes, it doesn’t speak to you... an entity difficult to understand. The dualism of being out is like the two faces of Batman. On one hand, there’s the path we choose to take, a senseless route we pursue only for the value we assign to it. And yes, I'm talking about value because those famous seconds of notoriety are not about television, but about being in front of people, telling stories, having others listen to them. It's all an appearance. I am an appearance. And with this facade, I must coexist. But the pleasure of appearing? Oh my God, I can’t explain it.

So, what is the day after for? To feel empty... simply empty because what we did is not important enough. And it never will be.

G.