are three days that I open and close this blog. Three days I write drafts, and not post anything, because I know the eyes that read, and I know those who do not read, but that they should read. I go on trying, hoping to knock out two lines of decency, and there never. This is the latest attempt, so if you're reading, yes, I do not ever turn to the alleged qusto blog readers, today is the first time I do it seriously, it is clear that the attempt will have been right.
is the truth, people reading. I'm tired . A classic, I know. Tired of trying to do my best to get the things so that fewer people can get hurt , and find that the end is useless. Which then, now that I think, for some reason in the only two concrete examples that come to mind when, in addition to myself - that does not go out never free, I'm sorry, is the victim, but to me it looks just like - what we call in the concrete is Gaia. Yes Yes, now I'm in a name. I hate the names. They make everything so terribly LITTLE POETIC, in these cases. But this situation .. come on, on, what's the matter of poetic? I tried to write in verse, I tried not to write, now I feel even so, in more colloquial prose that I can, ever will suddenly discover that all is well.
No, not good anything.
I'm wearing a lot more responsibility than I would have liked to have, willy-nilly. Including the responsibility on myself, because I do not want to fall into depression. I know how it works in my world. Or run away from everything , not having anything, which is the best way to be able to complain but have no problems, everything I or is removed, which is the most convenient way to remain passive in the face of life, and still do the said purpose. And since when I do not bow to the circle of the sloth? ever.
So here, we walk a tightrope, and fall from one of the two parties as if there was one that hurts less. There. The floor is the same. It seeks only to fall with his face toward the light.
Yes, I know what I'm talking about. And no one else, probably, although there are those who can interpret my words well. It is a letter to anyone, this one. It 's a letter to myself, to remind me what conditions you know that someone can see what I write. And yet it passed me the courage to turn this blog to others' eyes. Why?
I would flee. Orvieto, I miss . Those days alone to decide that I did not want to go out, or rather I really want to stay in a park hours, or hours to drink a cappuccino in front of the cathedral, without the time to anyone, except my . I lack the courage? Where did it go? I'm afraid that will not work? Did it work?
I'm fine with my sister at home. Sister, Jade, my neighbor, who lives with me and maybe it's a blessing that keeps me up, and does not need words. It 'as not necessarily having to be alone with a screen. It 's like if we were a family, me and her.
And then there are a lot of dreams that do not concern it, a lot of frustration that they kill me, and I continue to endure, because the man is masochistic in nature, because man has afraid, because I I'm afraid, or maybe good, or maybe I'm terrified of being back . being left behind.
's why I'm the first to do so.
what I wrote?
Shut . Get out. Press a button and everything is finished. But it does not work that way. Do not you stop simply to have emotions and feelings when you decide to do so. Oh, but it happens. Happen. If I had to wait at least not in this agony, but simply from day to day the world said "there you know" or "it's over." Wounded and dead, he recovered to live after them. But who is dying, every day is the greatest tragedy.
I can not complain if no one is happy with my (alleged) happy. The worst thing is that you can not deny when you see this behavior in what would we. I can not complain if, instead of feeling good now that I most of all, I spend my days to fret, attack and be attacked, as if there's a particular taste in destroy everything as soon as possible.
It 's very easy to hate those who ama, piuttosto che chi ci è indifferente..
Il mio Y. non mi può salvare. Sto annegando. Affogo. Non posso sopportarlo.
Ho scritto questo per voi? Coda di paglia, nel chiederlo di continuo e negarlo? Forse.
Strappatemi qualche altro pezzo.
Così finalmente resterò senza cuore.
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