Speed. Everyone has a tempo, a rhythm, a way of walking, of thinking, of living. We all take one step at a time, how many in a minute? In one hour? In one life? Everything moves forward, passing quickly in front of our eyes. Blink—you smile. Blink—ten years passed. Blink-blink-blink—there is no going back. Time never stops.

Speed

Each road has ten exits. Each exit has twenty traps. Walk. You must do it. Faster, until your feet bleed; as if death were after you. Slower, until you find the value of life; as if you don’t care about time. You decide.

Walk. You must do it. Speed separates twenty lies from a truth, a hundred failures from a triumph, a thousand tears from an "I love you." Decide. You have no choice.

Speed

The people advance. Each step leads them to a tomb, to a box, to the last goodbye, to death. They walk, they run, they flee, in a march that lasts for years, in a march that steals their air, in an invisible lament that is not called fatigue, but fear. Fear of accepting life, the cinema, the book you didn't write, the debts, the woman you loved but she didn't. Fear. Fear of the night, the fact that everything sees, without seeking you. Fear of the day ending, taking a little of your time, your essence, your happiness. Fear. Fear of the well of oblivion, to the passing of the years, to the anonymity... to death. Fear, of yourself.

Hurry up!

Run, flee, escape, as if life had some sense and you are willing to make some fucking difference. As if you could to change and the time gave you wings.

Fly, scream, live. As if you are enjoying the suffering that living represents. As if you are sending to hell all the truths and lies of the world. As if each day is worth all the fucking pain.

Or simply move forward little by little, as if your life weighs on you, as if the world rests on your back. While each step plunges you into that brave land that you pick up with your hands, hiding it in a fist, to feel its texture. The texture of towns, of centuries, of men and women who ran for millennia. They run between your fingers, sliding from your hands back down to the ground, to the streets, to the earth. And in all that time, half of your life has already passed. RUN!

Speed.

You open your eyes and there it is. You sleep and there it is. You do not see it, you do not feel it. It surprises you when you perceive it. It leaves you in a deep sleep when you are not conscious. Never going away, it is always there, on the lookout.

The speed is within you.

It hits you. You hit it. In a cycle that does not end, in a vicious spiral that you enjoy when you feel the speed in your face, the weight falling from your shoulders, life happening faster.

It hits you. You hit it. In an involuntary journey, pushing you to continue, to pursue an invisible path, to a life that you do not know.

The speed... the anonymous, invisible, and silent being that pushes us to trust ourselves to move towards nothing, to take a step into the abyss, into emptiness... into death.

The speed is within you because you are alive...