everyone says you bring out the worst in me, like that’s a bad thing.

there was a tempest last night, but I slept through it. there isn’t a single wind or dream that can wake me from my sleep.

and, also, there isn’t a single disaster in the world that could arise me from my life.

and there isn’t a single horoscope in all the fortune tellers’ hands that could justify my sins, but I am here, and I am living. it was all necessary for survival.

I AM
breathing.

it’s in and then it’s out. not comforting in any way, but what, in the end, fucking is?

the world is just ready to let you down, to put you down, against your will. it exists so much better without you in it. it wants to force you to your knees, your spirit so bent and broken, scattered in all those lonely places of the planet.

and then, you notice, there are the lonely places inside your own self as well. people cope with them in different ways, but none of us fails to notice ’em. it is just that feeling that you thought you had forgotten, coming back like an explosion.

all of the sudden, there you are, all over the place. it had been hibernating for so long, hidden in sunny bits of afternoons, and then it comes. sometimes, it comes in the creeping of the night, some others in the crowded subway just after lunch. but it comes. always. slowly, seeping in like cold water, a chill in the spine, in the dead silence of routine.

a lot of us drink to escape it. a drink because you are happy, a celebration! a drink because you are sad and you need it. in the moment of the haze, hunched over the toilet, you are too numb to remember it. put the beast to sleep at all costs so you can have a little moment of peace with yourself.

no, we are not sick. we are not crazy. even if we were, insanity suits us well. we are, in a few words, functional drunks: just a little whiskey in the morning coffee to kick the day into motion. we are drowning and drowning, but its slow, gradual. never comforting, but it’s there – a faithful companion.

and it’s in, and then it’s out. all the time, secrets and guts spilled all over the table, family dinners ruined, a crying mother by the bedside. no memory. of anything. past and present and future, all amalgamated in an immense mush of blur.

it seems that everything gets erased, pain and happinesses and sorrows. well, everything apart from those random uttermost moments of embarrassment. memories are substituted: your harsh childhood is now a distant brush of sand and sea, mixed in with the smell of salt crusted skin from that time where you vomited cheap wine on your friends’ picnic.

the world is satisfied. it holds your spirit captive, your own mind as a ball and chain. it squeezes out tears, making you remember everything you broke with your hands, every moment you’ve screwed up, every person that you’ve tainted. your life keeps spinning on a thread, and you are lost on the very place where you laid down your head. it smiles, content of its own deed. it made you kill everything you love.

you’re psychopath but, hey, at least you have a path. somewhere. down there.

but in the end, none of this really matters. the attempts to recover, the attempts to escape. break free. try and change. you just have to endure it, a fixed smile on your face. it is a constant trial, a misery test of yearning and longing and lacking. of frustration. of wanting only the things you can’t have. it is only the human nature, the unsatisfactory existence of being. it doesn’t matter if you find it hard to tame it.

in the end, all that matters is how well you walk through the fire.

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