About you, 16.Nov.2015
We write our story in invoices and doctor recipes. We book our flights, complain about the government and the lack of money, we call when we are drunk, we talk when we are high, we are paralysed when it gets real, we can’t confront our mother, we look for reassurance from people we hate, we write our story and try to make our life special pretending we are better than the rest. Do you think you are so special then? Learning how to make pasta at 45, knowing that you are more alone than ever before? Do you realise that the scars are just the beginning of what’s about to happen and you try to hide them because a step forward hurts more than one that is given backwards. They gave you a structured culture and lots of theory. But you are not happy, you are ill and the only person that loves you like you wish and like you never thought it was possible to be loved doesn’t want to see you anymore. Go somewhere, do something. Breathing will not be the beginning and the end is not close. Learn to forget yourself, cause you are digging your own grave the same way you digged holes in the beach when you were young. I don’t think about you, I just feel you, this is about the wind, this is about the wind.
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