What Am I running away from?

I joked about the fact that maybe I’m really crazy …

“Maybe I need a straightjacket

Face facts: I am nuts for real, but I’m okay with that!”

I also wanted to say that if I were it would be fine for me, trying to discover, to reveal as much as possible about myself.

I realize that with the passage of time, I change, and there will always be some side to discover, perhaps it is true that not even we ourselves can know each other 100%, but it does not matter, if that percentage that we do not know will give us room to improve .

I am no longer writing poetry, I am not feeling anything. One night I drank several beers without getting drunk, it was a psychological thing, if you are bored, if you have no emotions, you cannot get drunk.

I thought it was going through me like a bruise,

and instead I’m still here thinking about it, not visualizing stories in which I see his name, closing immediately.

I’m still trapped in a box from 2020, still not knowing how to get out of here. And perhaps I delude myself into believing that it will be enough to return to Bologna, to work to let everything pass, by going to a place and a situation in which none of this will be more important.

I want to live in a situation where there will be nothing that reminds me of my pain, my fucking sickness.

I’m still here trying to remember how to live, to feel something, but I feel more and more empty.

One part of me worries, another wants me to remain cool and rational to avoid any further discomfort.

I still pretend to be friends with someone, but the truth is that relationships are over, and I don’t give a damn about them anymore, or maybe I feel a bit resentful.

Yet I’m still here talking to them, I don’t know, I feel alone, but I want to be.

I want to go to a place where things don’t weigh on me, where I could lie down on the grass, and not think about anything anymore, because where I would go I would not be afraid of those who look at me, I would be free.

I would like to go somewhere, where what I think, what I feel, the efforts I make have some value.

In any case, I don’t want to stay in this kind of loop.

And I don’t even want people to know how I really feel, by now it seems that I’m ashamed of my pain, or, by now I’ve become so jealous that I don’t want to share it with anyone.

Since this pain is mine, and it doesn’t belong to anyone else, I realize how strange this thing is, feeling a negative thing as something precious, instead of wanting to throw it away.

Even if it is nothing:

“We had no money, no money

We had nothing, that nothing was ours “

I have nothing but this writing as an escape from these things, basically there is no other solution.

I don’t even know if I’m doing it to protect myself, or if seriously there is actually nothing more capable of making me feel something, doing things by inertia, and for nothing else.

I still wonder if I should care about some things, or when someone has no intention of paying attention to the way I feel, or the very intention of cultivating a friendship, leaving it alone.

It is a strange relationship with the heart, which I cannot understand if it is still alive, or it is my mind that tries to remember how to live.

Or maybe I’m just running away.

“I think of you while I am driving and you are no longer at the side

But can you remember that we’re running away from?

From the shit bars and the white wine, Holy Christ mass

Running after the storm, what did you expect in return? “

So I wonder what is right to do, but every time I get tired of going after people and I let them do it.

I ask if there is one. But never life has become boring and repetitive, so much so that even the thought of moving forward has become tiring, but it is the only certainty.

It’s like saying that many things don’t matter anymore, I’m working and waiting for the moment when I can feel good again.

By now many negative feelings have crystallized, I can no longer get angry, but anger has become part of me.

I am slowly changing and healing.

And forgive me if I don’t always bring poems, or I am no longer able to do as before, but I am not always able to write as I would like

Meanwhile, I bring you this.



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