Lately I asked myself and said if it was better to stop writing, maybe it would be good to take a break, maybe it would also help me for some more visualizations and I would also have more time to study.
For a couple of years, however, I have always been upset, always pissed off and writing has become that refuge and outlet, the desire to express thoughts and experiences, as if the written form is really stronger than the verbal. And maybe it is.
Very often I thought of giving myself a limit, to apologize for writing and what I wrote, maybe I was the first in history.
As if it ever did any good.
I could not stop, the words continued to flow, like the metaphorical blood that came out of my heart and mind, destroyed.
Thinking and writing everything that I cannot accept, has been and is just that way I have to defuse the unexploded bomb inside me, continuing to do so, with these more or less veiled references, to what I write.
I also broke the *** of giving myself limits, and of those who read without understanding, of this ignorance and functional illiteracy.
Of this way of life: if something doesn’t work, you throw it away, without trying to repair it, like shoes. And I, I tried to fix the shoes and so I did, going to the cobbler several times, until there was nothing more to do.
People, however, are not clothes and objects.
When we fight, you block me, you don’t talk to me, you have no intention of a direct confrontation, a confrontation that would have solved all the problems you have.
You thought that I was not able to accept a rejection, when not even, however, I was not even given the opportunity to feel such.
I still feel observed, when I write, I still feel judged.
I still feel that someone continues to misunderstand: I am therefore wondering what is the real usefulness of holding back thoughts.
To avoid writing “S ***” and other similar crap, since nothing changes anyway.
And then I continue to write and if you allow me, I also want to allow myself the luxury of an “outlet”.
I still feel observed, over the months I have always thought of being monitored, kept under control and I have had confirmation.
They called me paranoid if I didn’t trust me. But how could I ever do that, knowing that the person he said he trusted was the first to tell nonsense?
Then knowing from third parties that they were the first to be traitors and talkers?
Allow me the luxury of telling the reader, and whoever I think he reads, that they don’t have to worry, that the writer is certainly not a criminal who traumatizes the people and girls / women he falls in love with.
Yes, allow me the luxury of thinking that the only one who has been deceived and traumatized here is me.
And that’s why I write.
Then, after all, knowing that someone reads me, makes screenshots of what I publish, what should it mean? Isn’t this also a way of thinking, even if, obviously, in a totally wrong way?
Looks like I was telling people to keep reading? In short, the “stalkerized” here seems to be me.
Constantly judged, constantly pilloried, the so dangerous romantic, that the most dangerous thing he does is write, in order to stop thinking about what hurts him.
But no, please, keep watching and reading my every move, believing you are better than me, misunderstanding.
Because these are the very things that have done to me and piss me off, like the impossibility of explaining myself, simply being blocked, every thought and feeling stopped in the bud. And certain things become obsessions, malice, violence and negativity, precisely because one feels invaded, judged, censored, destroyed.
And the anger does not go away, it continues to coexist with you, along with the desire for change, yes …
It is a rage that does not find an outlet and I know that it would not happen even if I had to actually implement the “violence” that I wrote a long time ago, on which I am still being judged, but anyhow … this is my shitty town.
I know that the anger has now crystallized so much inside me that I no longer hear its voice, I have become one with it.
And it keeps producing life lessons, and I can’t stop writing.
In the meantime, who knows what would ever really calm ‘this anger … I often think it might be getting what I want, but now that I no longer know if I want it, that may not even be enough.
The photo you see in the featured image was taken at the same time as I was trying to figure out how I should close. I made a “declaration of love”, alone, speaking to myself:
– Hey, S ***, you know, I really like talking to you. I have fun, you are a person I feel comfortable with, I really like to laugh with you, make you laugh. Would you like to go out, to get to know us better?
And in that case, even a “No”, I would have done it very well.
Yes, I didn’t want to tell him because I don’t want to I do it in situations where I would feel uncomfortable, because I have always been afraid of how he would react. Evidently, the people we were with made me feel this way, perhaps I’m not sorry I’ve lost somebody.
… I can’t even feel God Anymore.
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