The dreams in which I'm dying, are the best I've ever had.

These days, I've been reading... a lot.
I've seen old friends. Coffee and then... party, and such.
I've flirted with old girlfriends, just to say them no.

My girl offered to come and see me, because she slightly knows.
With all her family, again... with the bunch.
Of course, I've a slight problem with that, but bah...
it ain't that important, not anymore.
I am tired of fighting the same ol', same ol'.
Come to think it: there is no real reason to fight at all.

At least she offered, that's good.

These days, I feel that I don't exist at all.
I am depressed, but this time, I am not angry.
Whenever I get depressed, I get mad at me...
I get mad with everyone...
and they know it.

I solve the same questions of everyday,
with a light smile on my face.
I hardly respond, when I am busy,
with a little frown in my forehead.
Everyone supposes I am okay, and that...
is good. I do not want anyone to know.

I try not to write, because everything I do...
I feel it's rubbish, it's shitty and it's bad.
Everything I read, appears so hard to understand.
And whenever I see old friends, is as nothing changed.
Even though one of them has a kid of his own, now.

Yesterday, he didn't have the kid, if you know what I mean.
Now... he has a son. But man... parenthood didn't changed him.
He's the same.
What does that mean? Am I like him?
After all this years, I'm still the
same ol',
same ol'...
same old shit?

When I go out to the street,
and walk to the little shop in the corner.
I do not think.
When I am depressed and angry at me, I usually think a lot.
And, sometimes, I explode and feel the tears sliding down my cheek.
When I am happy, I also think a lot.
I am always creating stuff with the people in my mind,
like they were my toys in a bucket.
And we play together, for a long time.

It is like I do not exist. And nobody cares.
And I do not want them to know. Why should they?
Why should they care? Would they try to help or fix anything?
Would anyone understand? I do not think so, I barely understand it myself.
Man... this is the first time I feel like this.
And it seems like I've been feeling like this for forever.

What did I do this time, to reach this strange state of mine?
What the fuck did I eat? Mushrooms? A bad pizza?

There's nothing in my life. That could be it.
There's nothing in my life but work.
And work has turned monotonous and boring.
And soon, I'll have school also.
But school, will also be the same ol', same ol'.
Then again... that's the only things I have.

I can't ask for more, because there's no more.

(No family living here anymore,
no girl without her family bunch,
no friends, male or female, that could understand me,
no money, no sister, no kind of glory)

There's no happines, no anger.
Just sadness. It is like I do not exist anymore.
That's all there is to it.

A sudden struck of Anger... Despair... Fornlorn.

And, suddenly, I felt bad. Without any aspiration, or inspiration, or motivation.
Suddenly, yes, I felt like I have been feeling a couple of days ago.
Maybe more,
Even... I could say I feel like this since I was born.

(Yeah, I know, I know my depressive status, I should see a psychologist.
But I do not trust them).

The problem is, I feel nothing has changed.
I fear that nothing will change in the future.
And I fear (very much, thank you), that nothing will change tomorrow.

I feel like and old monument, who has lost its old days of theatre, cultural events, and orgiastic moments. Old Greece should weep a tear for me. bah.

And I feel like everyone, around me, is okay with that. I feel like they have an everchanging life, and I know it is not like it... but then again, they have the power to change everything.

I feel powerless.

Today, I do not want to hear about promises.
About probable changes in my life.
About my objectives, or my life project.
Today, I do not want to think in the near future.

I just, do not want to hear.

On writing a lot of stories and never ending one of them.

I have a terrible habit.

I start a fiction, and I rarely end it.

I start to write a story, and I amaze myself of how much I love to do it, how much I'd like to include in... and my brain works amazingly fast, on coke and cigarretes, during three or four months. My mind becomes like a cascade, flooding ideas, almost vomiting them in my keyboard, in my mouth.

But then, I just leave it. I do not know why that happens yet.

Sometimes, I believe I fear to end something I enjoy too much.

Other times, It is because people who read it tell me that I should publish it, but I know I won't... because I'm afraid of literary contests.

I even thought, that the culprit was depression. I use fiction as my own resource to not fall in the darkness of reality. In the darkness of the "every-day". The darker reality becomes, the brighter my creativity could turn.

And when I'm walking, slowly, to the end of a story... I just can't finish it. I feel that I loved so much the story that saved me from myself, that it would be rude to put an ending point in it.