The apartment is silent. I finished writing a political thing about the supposed terrorism, posted it, and as always I'm depressed and sad. Politics depresses me. What I write in that realm always leaves me unsatisfied and dubious. Worried for everyone's reaction. I would mind less if I had to write about my intestinal habits or my kinky dreams or whatever. I wouldn't mind at all actually. I wish I had the time or better the urge to draw today. To post a drawing would cheer me up, it usually does...
Eat a yogurt, read some blogs. Admire a number of them. Avoided DC's again for fear of being annoying for mysterious reasons I wouldn't get --or to write something toady or silly (I'm crazy). There's a mountain of dishes in the sink I should wash, piles of books around the small green table. Today after I worked out I looked at my sketchy muscles in the mirror and made faces. This makes me smile if I think about it now.
No sex today, yesterday. Masturbation upon awakening, mixed in the dreams. Jawa, Rulla, made appearances today in it. I should translate some poetry, find the room to write some. Should finish a website and the logo for Libi. Tomorrow open mouth to the dentist. Tragically tired... And yet is life that empty?
Maybe tomorrow will come the courage to go to Jawa's and talk. With my luck she won't be home. I have been thinking about Piero and them every day since the last time we met. Wished I had someone, anyone to talk to about that. Because I don't know if I am crazy or not. Or what. I played all the possible outcomes of the conversation over and over in my head. "...You'll think I am crazy..." "...do you remember one year and ten months ago when you said you were pregnant? I asked you, wait, there's a little chance that I might be the father? And you said..." "Jawa, don't worry. Don't be scared of me..." "fuck, let's talk blood types. You guys are physicians after all..." "...I don't even imagine this could change anything: it couldn't. I just... would like to know, I guess..." "...I don't want to barge in your lives... I'd never..."

And what if I'm wrong? Should I be ashamed, and how could I avoid the shame? After all the first time I saw the child I felt he looked like his father. I said that out loud. The first impression should be the right one. He looked like his uncle actually. But maybe I was deliberately trying not to see that he looked like me. I remember that day, me and Jawa where waiting at the railroad crossing behind the little church next to Naviglio Grande, and the bascule lifted and the cars began moving next to us and we were on the sidewalk and in the rumble I said, to the five months old thing in her knapsack, I said, let's go my child. It was inadvertent, but Jawa didn't say anything, not even, yeah, right. She deadly serious looked away. I am still thinking at that and wondering. I thought, shit, I wish it was something one could talk about. And, incredible, it still is something you can't talk about. But I shouldn't complain for it-- after all I so obviously enjoy having secrets, don't I? They're the freedom I wasn't allowed to have as a child I guess. Or some other bullshit.

Since I must do something, I think I'm removing the fucking political post. It took me one hour to write it... that should make me feel better. To end with a similitude, I'll say that politics are just like italian coffee. No lasting. Overrated. Poisonous in the long run. Easily bitter as gall in the wrong hands. Needs rubber to work his way through. Chauvinist. Obscure. Needs sugar to be swallowed (end of the post.)