It feels wierd, but I find difficult to be myself.
I feel like I’ve been spending those days as Chiara without the fiction of a funny mask. I thought that Ginger would have helped me, that Rosaria would have given me the strenght to carry on, that my hateful ‘me’ would have died.
Now I have the feeling that I was wrong. I feel like a doormat. I’m neglecting myself.
Time’s running around me and I’m empty-handed with a blank brain.
And I’m tired, as I’ve been running around the whole world non-stop. Tired as I’ve been lifting 10 elephants on my lean shoulders. A pain that makes me vulnerable to the tortures of my always boring everyday life.
I’m not reading anymore. I’m not writing much. I’m not watching movies. I’m not making my so favourite random notes on things that don’t need notes. And while I’m lost into melancholic targets of a future that seems inexistent to me, I waste my moments dreaming of a life of sex and richness, among cool guys that love me and no one else.
Exactly when I start to be disconsolate because of life I seem not to belong to, my eyes cry.
As a river of bitterness and depression, because I know that I’ve never had the opportunity to live that reckless adolescence known for its “I-don’t-give-a-fuck” mantra.
So I find myself on the bed, staring at the ceiling that I’ve never considered white. A ceiling that fills those empty spaces of my spare dreams and that I fear will one day fall over me.
I find myself drowning in the tears of a meaningless weeping because I’m conscious that I cry because I consider it the only last thing to do to feel that I’m still alive.
I cry for myself, my look, my dad, my sad mother, my brothers, my dog, my house, my memories, my pictures, my friends, my journeys.. I cry for the simple uselessness of my crying and for the certainty that my weeping is the result of a delayed-action bomb.
Making the picture complete, there are these terrible nails, reflections of my mood. Corroded enough to disappear. Painful enough to bleed and flabby enough to become dust.
When I look at my nails I feel naked. It’s like staring continuously at my image in the mirror and having the image of myself right in front of my eyes for an endless time, it’s miserable.
It’s a torture that brings me a tough pain into my soul.
Then I feel another portion of my inner me oozing with trembles of an abnormal suffering.
When the infinite sea of my personal despair will be calmed down, which end will I have ?
After all, I write when I’m sad and my inspiration comes when I cry ..
Am I destined to feel this way all my life ?
I’ve been enough depressed for now.