I don’t really know for what I’m living. I could certainly depict that all the ties which connected me to life have torn apart. What really matters in this is that I myself hate anything which connects me to life. So many things don’t have the mentioned value in the first place. And despite this knowledge I move on in vain. Last night I witnessed my birth in a pool where my mother and father and I were in, in different corners. My mother who doubted my being alive gave birth to me and I was freed in the water. I grasped the little baby while looking into my mother’s eyes with fear and confusion. She said she’s dead but I peeled the thin plastic-like cover around the baby and hung her upside down and hit slowly her back and after a cough she breathed deeply and slowly. My father told me she was dead too right after my mother. But she was alive and the only one who actually gave birth to me was me. How can you?
Chapter 50 of my unfinished novel, Marsala
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