The real unwavering Faith, the one to mention, casts itself toward bravery, with its feet kicking the air above: to trust somebody or something, on the contrary, means pushing your rationality to a place it didn’t want to be. I trust something because I had good reviews about it, I trust somebody because I know him. Or her. Having faith is a whole other ball of wax, needing a blatant incapacity of figuring where the fuck this thing is going, you-just-have-Faith.
Driving drunk at night requires a certain amount of attitudinal skills, skills that are actually stigmatized in our everyday’s life – anti-social behaviours anestethyzed in order not to having fist-fightings on the streets. You need to be ignorant about your total ignorance, you need to be ice-cold, you need to be able to see in the dark. You have to underestimate the danger of your own behaving, which is slightly less noxious that shooting around with a hand on your eyes – you need to be a jerk. It only takes ten seconds and an idiot to fulfill a room of friends and relatives, spilling hate tear-after-tear. Any kind of punishment will be, at least, deserved.
Fear, the atavistic security device developed by the family of the first imbecile jumping into a bonfire, is switched off. Alcohol switched it off. While chatting, I found myself unable to carv consonants, solid enough to make intelligible the fuck I was saying after the third Moscow mule. Nonetheless, two hours after I had enough confidence to manage 1’025 kilograms at 90 km/h through tree-lined roads.
A wolf is the one that runs through the woods, what runs through the woods is a wolf. Every blue-lighted flash opens your eyes wide while throat-breathing tries to change as much air as it can to the open window – blue should be forbidden when it comes to Christmas lights of choice – but recklessness is way larger than ability. Is it worse or better for a breathalyser to light a cigarette now? There are no patrols, no tests, just a shadow-like danger to run from: the more shadow-like it is, the more romantic. Jordan Belfort waking up to find out what kind of night his Lamborghini actually went through, that is ignorance – knowing a library by the plate outside.
Mad bull lost its way until it finds someone to follow – then it becomes a patient and gay rabbit after an old guy’s Meriva, an old guy’s Panda to follow. After your Jedi master, crystallized endorphins on your skin and the placid feeling of being drunk again. Smooth job tonight’s job and I swear it won’t happen again, no. But as long as there’s no old guy to chase, that twenty centimetres run on the right pedal are an omnipotence crescendo. An omnipotence crescendo. How do you call that, mindless trust in your own skills? No, faith.