In italy we say: “Those who want too much, won’t get anything”, says a proverb. Well, even those who want little, or just one thing. Now, alas, I only see the end of a destroyed world. We are witnesses of our dissatisfactions, often, without even having the joy of having a last wish, as if we were condemned.
I look at my life now, after all of this. After this war, these destructions. We are lost, and we just have to look at life, like the empty beer bottles, left on the doorstep of our lives, and the roadsides.
We just have to observe, helpless, the failure of our life. The projects have all gone to hell, we don’t have the affections, and, well, what did we really want? Not even a minimum.
And I still don’t understand, because the only love we feel is never mutual, because they can’t love us, because everything bursts and collapses, in a second, as if we were on the twin towers.
Because we give love to those who are not ready to receive it, but however we would like them to take it, and we wait, we wait …
Rubble, nothing but rubble.
Is this what we have left, after having done and tried so much? It seems to be like the poor hanged, abandoned, waiting for the birds to eat us.
Dreams hanged, like us, who have condemned ourselves to death, without knowing it.
The end of the world.
I can try to be optimistic, but if what I hope does not happen, it swallows the bitter morsels of disappointment, of helplessness.
The awareness of not being able to do shit, in short.
Look at us now.
It seems that they brought us into the world only to suffer, to have the thankless task of loving, of waiting for the one we love, who does not come back. To drink poison.
Look at us now, we are only the shadow of what we hoped for, we are young, but it seems that the future never existed, that there was only the present of shit.
And, after so many years of disappointment, we are tired.
Now, I look at myself for the first time, I look my anger, my pain in the face, without dodging it, without trying to control it. By now I know it’s part of me.
It’s like having the 100% vivid sensations, as if now, you finally feel them. In part I’m happy with it, on the other …
You think about it, and you say:<<Come on, but how the fuck is it possible that for the umpteenth time I am disappointed? >>
You pass once, twice, three … tired of being disappointed, you are no longer willing to accept. It’s like the pile of shit you’ve seen now weighs too much to bear.
After all, “go on” and “resume living” become abstruse concepts, more negative than the rest. Because life weighs more and more.
And, they say we should be “cynical”. Fuck yourself.
I prefer to be mature, who closes himself behind the mask of “cynicism”, proves that he has not learned anything.
You have to feel a pain to understand it, to assimilate it as an experience, to really evolve, to move forward.
Tell me then, S***** … Since you expected me to be more cynical, and I see ‘this fucking cynicism, it really makes me sick. Would have been better? It almost makes me wonder, if in that case you had stayed close to me, or if you would have liked it,
but I doubt, I very much doubt.
I do not think so.
But never really …
Oh well, anto the more I go on the more I have the feeling of having received piles of bullshit, in which you too have been involved.
And of course, anger does not pass, she has become a faithful companion. As Jake La fury said in “Sixth Sense”:
“You can only do it with anger because you dance with the devil
And you know that suddenly the rhythm changes “
This malaise we feel today, at the age of 30 and passes, is not the same as it has been in their twenties. The optimism passes, the cravings pass …
I repeat: we are here as hanged,
to watch helpless, the end of the world.
What the fuck are we supposed to do? We have the strength to commit ourselves, but we cannot. We are tired of being disappointed, we are fucking hanged. Here we are, in short.
Piece by piece, dead inside, in short. What time passes, you say that something better will come … but after so many blows, how do you know?
My only hopes are the desire to change my life, put in a shit of difficulty and heaviness in doing it, and in fact, to feel alive, with all the feelings, as if they existed for the first time.
But I’m tired…
Just as I am tired of seeing other friends who are sick, for situations similar to mine,
and not being able to do shit about it.
We are dead men walking, holy shit.
With the determination and the dreams left, as we see them breaking. With his hard cock still in his hand, without being able to fuck, but being able only to make sad jerks, thinking about those who have abandoned us, without even being able to give us an explanation.
Or anyway, shitty explanations, holy shit.
Tell me now, where the fuck do I go, after a lifetime of mistakes, what the fuck would be the right direction? I knew it, now I don’t know anymore.
I wish it was the same as before, fuck.
Like saying to a friend, here he is, “but then you will go on”, when he is still sick in the present. Give him the hope of a future, which I don’t even know if it exists.
How the fuck do you know?
The future? Fuck the future, we wanted that thing, do we fucking care what isn’t there? And we don’t know if there will be?
We are hanged,
to see the end of the world.
We never had the future they promised us.
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