I was.

Italian version

I was so many things … I was in love, I was still well-meaning, I was a friend, I was fond of. I was a loved geese.

I was so many things: he was also someone who up to a certain point worried about others, at times, about what they might think, but … that’s so hypocritical of me: don’t do my best to be someone who could pretend to being someone else, to keep “good relations”.

Some things are stronger than me.

But today I don’t even know who I am anymore.

It wasn’t just for a specific person, I think I’ve started to get lost for a while … but you know, maybe the truth is that I’ve started to find myself, in truth.

Perhaps, giving up everything that did me more harm than good is the truth about me, about us.

I feel like I’m losing pieces, I feel like I’m losing people.

It seems to me that the negativity of myself and other people has entered deeply inside me, a lot. So much so that, by now, I don’t care about anything or anyone.

Of no opinion.

Sometimes I think I could tell the truth, but I understand that if a friend is okay, my opinion matters little.

If someone doesn’t show up, it doesn’t matter.

I don’t know what happened to me. Everything has changed, everything is changing.

I had relied on things that were illusions, thoughts, hopes, but they are like smoke: I cannot grasp them.

I feel like my and too many people’s negativity has entered me, a black or purple color. Often, being with other people is more bad than good.

I often walk a lot and I am only so much to dispose of this malaise.

And I remember how I was.

Maybe now I’m disillusioned, maybe I’m better now because I don’t care about the same things.

Why not brood, I do not want to stay, not too much, or in any case not for useless things.

Sometimes I think that a worry can turn into an obsession.

But it is not understanding anything about something that leads you to ask yourself questions, to which you cannot find an answer, to which you cannot find a remedy.

And you think, and you write. Write a name inside your head, and I almost understand how it can scare one thing: imagining writing it on the walls instead.

But it’s something that happens, it happens to everyone.

And, in my intimacy, I understand a little.

But I also understand that I am not a monster, there was no possibility that I could and I never could have been.

After all, I find myself alone, as usual …

And I make a prayer, praying for a couple of people who have hurt, hoping they can be happy… even without us.

And I also pray to be saved.

I pray that for me there may be someone, I pray that there may be something that will save me, because one thing is certain: continuing like this is not what.

I don’t know what exactly should save me: finally a change of scenery, or a woman, or both.

I have to save myself.

Because here I don’t have to think about “I was”, but about “I am”.

.

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