In my life, I have said “goodbye” many times. Not literally, also because you live, and you never know when the last moment you will talk to a person will be, because you never know when one suddenly leaves.

And it can happen that she goes away both physically and otherwise.

And don’t you know that maybe, for various reasons, you stop talking to each other, and it doesn’t always happen through a fight.

It has happened many times that we share particular moments with some people, then we separate: there are those who go to other countries, or they lose their ways, their contacts.

But how do you ever know that there is one last time, after all?

Sometimes it disappears without making a sound, sometimes it is like that, with a snap of your fingers, it all ends as soon as you turn around.

Other times, however, the noise that is made is really a lot, there is screaming, arguing, so much … everyone must try to override the other, to be right.

Then, when you stop being in the spotlight, and instead look for some peace, you look for darkness, silence, you understand that all that mess, all that noise was unnecessary. That anger is often a pretext, that you want to vent everything in a second, without thinking about it.

That I, after all, for every time something has happened, for every time I have separated, I have always suffered, regardless of the depth of the relationship and the bond.

Just as I always thought there was a better way to live, instead of being constantly kidnapped in the jungle of this annoying and repetitive way of being, by many. Hearing the same stories on the loop, none that stand out, even those who seem the cleanest, have the crap inside, the dust under the carpet.

It’s all a huge piss.

I feel that deep down, my cries are very deaf, as if I lived in a vacuum, a glass bubble, in which only I feel my own pain.

In the end, I think I am the only one who had the willpower necessary to move forward, if I had been weaker, and certain boulders on my heart, I would not have been able to remove them, I don’t know, maybe I would have died, or I wouldn’t be like that.

You know that in the end, you will always love someone, in the depths of your heart, as well as wish you could be well, despite all the harm he has done.

You almost hope, that somehow someone changes, that he realizes reality, that something bad like you can happen to him, in order to grow and understand how you did, like I did. It seems that no one ever assimilates experiences, never understands life.

And sometimes I delude myself, as if someone could truly understand, learn. Some people will remain the same throughout their lives, because they will always be afraid to look at each other, to really look into each other’s eyes, in front of the mirror.

That unfortunately, many people will remain the same, as much as I can hope that they understand, that they mature.

My friend, when do you grow up? When do you understand that we are now men, that it is time to stop playing, to believe that life is the same as it was when we were kids?

That here people go away without warning, without giving explanations, that one grows up thanks to the fact that one is ill, unfortunately.

My friend, when you grow up, you can take the piss out and fool yourself as much as you like, but time passes anyway, you know?

And perhaps it is also wrong to hope and expect someone to learn, to understand. After all, I know, many people will never repent, no one will perhaps ever realize that they have lost something precious.

That someone who loves them as someone who really loved them, without teasing, in a spontaneous and genuine way, will never find him again.

And they will understand it too late, if they ever do.

That some lives are empty, to avoid getting sick, they continue to be apathetic, and they never realize they are hurting themselves.

That after all, despite all the evil, it is always better to live things in them, to have real stories to tell, to be like a painter, to always have colors for your paintings, or like me, a writer, with words in mind. to fill the blank sheets.

People only talk to each other again in movies. I imagine a thousand scenarios, and I am reminded of the miraculous opportunity to meet again in years, in which the other person and I will have truly left the past behind.

But I realize that maybe I’m the only one able to do it. That I am capable of growing and understanding things, without anyone repeating it to me over and over again, and demanding it. Because I think a lot of people would like me to be different. And it’s paradoxical, because they accused me of wanting and doing the same thing.

And then, parts of me die, and I bury them somewhere. I liked being that way, it made me a little happy, but now?

Now they are just memories.

And I bury those parts of me, that will never come back, and I live as I am today, after all of this. Thus, as well as the parts of other people, who, colliding, also died.

Some relationships end up destroying each other, in the end.

But who can rebuild?

Me,

always me.