Resigned Heart.

As if I have the last fragments of heart to shoot, the last parts of a withering love, I’m writing the last things.

I’m afraid, I’ve always been afraid of many things. Now I’m afraid of forgetting. I fear that the feeling will wither, that I may become indifferent and cynical towards those who, as I hope, will one day return.

And I, I could send her to that country, going in stark contrast to who I am now. I feel free, I feel I have become autonomous, I have a freedom, an awareness, self-esteem, a desire to commit myself, even if I fail, I don’t give up but I think about trying again, I think about the next challenges.

This victory, this liberation, is not something that feels good. It fills me with sadness, like that of the resigned.

With the heart of someone who is finally accepting his fate of him, that he understands that he can’t do anything about it.

I still feel like crying, for not being able to do anything about it, for those who have already left. I didn’t want to go like this.

What do I feel now? The heart feels a different, less intense pain. The pain of those who think that “it went like this, that’s okay”.

The moment of painful growth and maturation, of those who stop dreaming, of those who stop talking about it, and do it for the last time.

As if I were lost, somewhere, in the silence of the night, looking up at the sky, smoking a cigarette, feeling in the chest that feeling you get when you fear that it will remain like this forever, even if you don’t want to.

Hateful feeling of the end of dreams and hopes, even if you leave them somewhere, in your mental house, in your palace, on a shelf, in our soul library, leaving the door open, if ever … if ever a miracle could ever happen.

But then, have I ever had a balance? We compete to see who gets hurt the most, exchanging blame, empty anger, like that between being right or wrong.

Between the pains of remorse and the speeches of conscience: “Why do I always have to lose what I loved most?”

If only I could go back, if only I could correct, if only I could start over, yeah.

And instead reality always gives us these punches in the face. The world lied to us, perhaps, making us believe that at a certain point, we would be with what we wanted, what we are committed to.

Rest with doubts, bitters in my mouth, unanswered questions.

Dying tears,

and that’s okay.

It hurts to grow up, yes.

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