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"The pain within me is my cross, the one I carry behind all my smiles and laughter, a pain that comes with me, a pain that causes the burning present in my heart, which at night makes me cry for no apparent reason.
It must only be my strange and bitter heart, melancholic and powerless, lonely and abandoned. Above all, damaged—damaged by life, damaged by me. As a consequence of treating my life like a fragile stick that I could break, one I could end. Pulling a trigger or ending up on the ground curled into a ball. Being so fragile, so sensitive and useless, perhaps even insensitive.
“They love you.” Oh, yes, they do. I’m a selfish narcissist; everyone has problems, don’t they?
Worse, worse, worse—their conditions aren’t the best. And here I am, with a privileged life, lacking precarious conditions. Where I’m not happy, and now those people, who live their lives fully, with hope, and where no one pretends to be unhappy.
Where there are dreams, there are aspirations, the beautiful and deceitful hope.
I’m probably taking refuge in my writing, in my blanket, and in my tears,
better than ending up three meters underground and causing expenses for others.
“Without being a burden to others?” Without being a burden to others.
Without tears for others, false tears, from people who made me miserable every day. Although maybe I already was. The only one to blame for my monotonous, boring, irrelevant, and miserable life. How could someone cause so much disappointment?
I was supposed to be an exception, not just another one in the crowd.
“Being a burden to others?” Being a burden to others.
There can’t be someone who ruins everything repeatedly, whose soul is so rotten.
What happened to you? What happened to me? What happened to us?
Childish and innocent, villainous and violent, innocence lost, a rotten apple.
Staying in my comfort zone, playing in the yard, living my life, just being a child.
Living like an adult while being a child, an adult living like a child.
Premature maturity—I wasn’t immature like the others. I wasn’t.
“You’re very mature for your age,” maybe I wasn’t.
I should never have broken down, never crossed my line, I never should have, I shouldn’t have.
But I did.
An emptiness inside me that makes me feel inferior. No one was obligated to fill it with love. You held on, you held on, I held on, I held on.
Loving is letting go, healing is progressing.
Even though deep down my pain is still there, even though deep down it is.
It’s the reason I’m scared, I’m trying to heal, trying to heal and forget.
So I can rest in peace.
“You’re not dead.” I’m not, but it feels like I am.
As if part of me doesn’t exist and I stopped living, as if I had lost who I am and forgotten where I even am,
a life on autopilot, with my essence hidden in an unknown attic.
Listening to Alex G in my room, crying and calling your name at night, with the remnants of my soul.
Maybe I’m a coward for trying to abandon everything,
a murderer of my dreams and aspirations,
ending what I set out to do with this young life of mine.
Pain in my heart, pain, pain, pain."
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