Midnight of my Life

13. února 2016 v 0:24 | BibiTheDarkLord
Now, I am an intelligent (and depressed) piece of shit.

Wordcount: 656
IN ENGLISH



I am not sure what's true and what's a totally irrelevant thing to say about myself. I have gone through a lot of moods. I tried a lot of attitudes towards life, but somehow, I always end up here. Sitting on my bed or at the table with my laptop, typing. Because this is what I do. I write about other people. Fictional or not, I write about their lives. It doesn't matter what the story is about. Only thing what matters to me while I type is that they feel and I don't. They are written on a page, in a computer. I can't even touch them, or the words. But the characters in my story feel more real than me. I am just an illusion. I like to let my mind wander this way late at night. Darkness reveals the true form of things and my fears. I used to fear darkness, now I welcome it and cherish it. At night, I am finally and truly alone, ready to make miracles happen. Ready to tell my story. Ready to open up. I guess, it's a pity that nobody is awake to see it. But I can live like this. Maybe if I was forced to spend more time alone with myself, I would learn how to love her. And I would get to know her. Like never before.


I still feel like something is lacking. Does every writer, or painter or whatever feel like this? Do we all spend our lives in an illusion of being happy? Maybe only some of us can see through. I don't know if it's a good or a bad thing that I am obviously one of these people. And even worse is, I don't know how I can find out. I want to see myself from another point of view. I wonder what you think of me now, that you've read these words I typed. But you wouldn't tell me if I asked, am I right?

It's midnight. Still not late enough for tears. These usually come in the morning. But why do I cry? If tears fall from your eyes only when you are overhelmed with any feeling, why do I cry then? What part of me is feeing that much? I can't feel it. By the amount of tears, that part of me should screem for life by now. But it's quiet inside. I wonder what is happining in there.

I did not think about this but an idea was born in my head just a second ago. This situation could be called a battle, a fight. Maybe even a war. But I am alone in here. There is nobody abound when I cry, or before I cry. So what am I fighting with? Loneliness? No, that's stupid. There is too many people in my life that love me, right? At least, that's what they said. And here comes the problem. Do I believe them? Well, yes. But no. There is a difference between believing that they love me and believing them when they say that they do. So who is the enemy then? If it's not coming from outside…it has to come from the inside. From me. Somewhere deep inside, a fire started nearly a year ago. And it's getting bigger as I type. As I do anything. No matter how much I laughed today or how many times I've told you I was fine, it grows. I always come back to this hollow feeling later at night.



I was trying to discover what it really is. I came up with two simple opinions. First, the fire is still burning and causes the heaviness of my heart, slowly eating me from inside. Second, the fire died weeks ago. And brought every part of the old me to die along with it. And now, I am just a shell of what I once used to be.
 

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