APOLOGY FOR SLOTH

By Francesca Petroni (from the collectio 7 Anime Perdute published by Bertoni Editore)

Illustation: Paolo Favaro

Do.

A single word, brief, harmless. Comforting, even.

Do.

The source of all experience, bearer of knowledge and power.

Do.

Do you feel the sweetness with which it begins upon your lips? And finally, that sensual rebounding of the tongue against the palate—can you feel it?

Do.

Again. Once more. And again.

Do. Do. Do.

There it is—can you perceive it now? The hidden anguish, the serpentine whisper of its illusion? Hold it close, etch it into your good intentions, into everything you have been taught.

Do not lie to yourself, as I did for too long. Embrace the terror that writhes in the darkest corners of your heart—it will be the only thing that saves you. Because doing is the cruelest of curses, an original sin to which the Void has condemned us all.

Do you think I do not know? That I have not felt the demonic call of self-realization?

You are mistaken. I would have given anything for absolute knowledge. I would have bartered my soul for access to the deepest secret of the Universe.

And I did.

I have plumbed the abyss of knowledge, its most arcane recesses. If only I had not been who I was—if only I had grasped the utter futility of such a pursuit.

But no, how could I? Failure is a brand that burns like a thousand scorching tongues. You have felt them run over your skin already; you bear the marks—look at them.

Do they disgust you? And what of the countless judging eyes that assail you?

It is never enough—nothing ever is. And yet, you persist, lost in your tasks, keeping yourself busy.

Ah, of course. We were speaking of grand ambitions, not of washing away the foul filth with which the body defiles every attempt at beauty. Not of lingering in the empty chatter that fills your ears. Nor of the languid promises of happiness shimmering on the screens that hold you spellbound.

I see you—my state allows it. I feel your damnation as though it were my own.

As it once was my own. Because now that all has happened, and future and past have lost all form, even that is gone.

I would have laughed, perhaps. No—without a doubt, I would have laughed. Laughed at you who believe in the worth of your actions, and in so doing, I would have laughed at myself. Unknowingly.

I, who crystallized my time in knowledge, would not have understood.

But now I do. Yet when you bring your illusions into reality, when you believe that what you do will change something, you fail to see the true nature of things.

In the end, no one will come to congratulate you.

What? Oh, of course.

God.

How would you manage without, right?

No, rest easy. I am not here to convince you of His false presence. You already know. Otherwise, you would not fear death so much.

Have you ever imagined it, that final moment? Have you ever pictured the state in which you will arrive at it?

Tell me, does God comfort you now?

Do not answer. You have better things to do.

The phone rings—someone calls you from the other room. The executioner you call boss has assigned you an urgent task. There is a good book to read, a pleasant evening awaits you.

Do not think about it; it would serve no purpose anyway.

Keep doing. Faster, more precise. Rise like the sun at dawn. Do you lack the will? I am the last person to blame you.

After all, the alternative is to succumb to the world’s enticements, like a parched wanderer in the desert who gulps down sand, believing it to be crystal-clear water.

You are free to gorge yourself, as far as I am concerned.

For that is the secret: whatever choice you make, it will make no difference. Because in the Absolute, all is One, and One is all. Your ego will be obliterated, and nothing of the person you believe yourself to be will remain.

Where will your cherished hopes be then? Shattered into fragments so minuscule as to be nothing.

But let me give you some good news: you fear it as much as you will be relieved by it.

Do you hate me? Oh no—you hate that part of yourself that I represent. Look closer.

Or perhaps you pity me. But even then, perhaps you merely pity yourself.

Once again, I cannot blame you.

I hear you speak of love. In fact, I hear rivers of words, vast oceans of words about love.

When you are nothing within the All, what will remain of your love? Your feelings, ever thirsty for something or someone outside yourself, will extinguish as though they had never existed. The same will be true for any other emotion to which you have granted a temporary reality.

Nonsense, foolishness, the ravings of a madman. Whatever barrier you have erected to shield yourself from becoming me, know this: at some point in the future, it has already happened, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it.

And now, listen to me, for I will not say this again:

Stop.

There is no need to do; you have nothing to chase.

It is not a sin.

Evil, like good, is nothing more than a necessary act in the theater of life. Relax, enjoy the show while the curtain still holds firm above you.

I know you already feel better.

Because it is not doing that you are searching for, but being.

And you—you are.

P.S. I shall write no more, for, after all, I have done enough. And ultimately, what would be the point?

Raccolta completa di Bertoni Editore qui:  7 Anime Perdute