SO TO SPEAK

I’m running. I’m running on socks, on waxed floor. I’m standing stuck still in the same place, although with a huge effort to move over. And I’m tired. I run towards things I’ve never known. I seek heart healing, soul sheltering, smiles returned, looks and not glares.

The emptiness consumes me. The absolutiness of pain and depression plays around my naked body, which stands denied and left lied on a moist dust ground. I want to get up. I want to get over it. But no hands are seen to help me lift.

I disagree with life and hold myself on death, while I keep plastic smiles on face to disguise my pain in order not to keep people out me. I keep people out me. By going on trips inside my Self and never letting anybody else to come along. I lock the door to make myself alone within, surrounded only by smoke of cigarettes.

In the name of freedom death may bring, I chain-smoke to make my life shorter. Thirty-five. I plan dying at the age of thirty-five since I was twenty. More a dream than a plan, actually. But still keeping me up to carry on. The certainty of death and the dream of a death nearby is what makes me going on living. A contradiction that makes sense... at least, to me.

I take two subway trips a day. I quit paying phone bills in the right month. I drink Coke a lot and I eat microwave-made food on dinners. I live in a little cute apartment supported by my parents, which are a mess everytime they’re not around. I can wear the same jeans pants everyday, during a whole week. I work quite much but my job accomplishments mean nothing to me. And when people ask me how I am, I tell them I’m alright, even though it’s not true.

I go on night clubs every now and then, looking for meeting people and finding a companion, although I just say I’m ok and just going for the music. I dance a lot, I act like I’m self-sufficient and I find no-one. I, then, go back home feeling miserable.

I have appointments on study that I leave aside, because I’m never in the mood to do them. But then, I feel guilty. So I do them, acting like I care. And charge others about it and get angry when everybody else don’t seem to care, as well.

I envy wealthy people. I envy my wealthy friends. I believe that if I were rich, I could do anything I want, or at least have some happiness on things money can buy, like new clothes every month, new CDs, parties every week and trips abroad. I want to live abroad. Because I also believe, that I could be happier somewhere else than here, specially in Europe. I have no feelings for my country whatsoever.

I have some motives to smile and be content, but depression soon takes me away from this motives. Because you might have many good things in life, but they mean nothing when your wrapped in depression. I’m a depressed person. I’m a love-less person. And I hide it all I can. And people really doesn’t seem to notice...

And I know... all this look very much teen-ish. I’m emotionally retarded, so to speak.