▶ Run boy run – Woodkid
Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.
Starting it all over again. Creating a new, better life. Having a new image, a lovely but leady personality, building up and definitely keeping silent my past. Going for adventures, on holidays to places nobody ever talks about, getting to know forgotten places and people. Drinking, eating, dancing. Running, until my bones hurt, until I stretch up my muscles. Working hard to get enough money to let me do everything I listed above. Kissing who I want to kiss, punching the face of who deserves so, staying away from drugs. Going for a car ride all night long and telling the people I’ve brought with me everything that comes up to my mind at that moment. Not rushing things up, taking a breath from my routine. Driving, staying out all night long, buying airplanes tickets. Sharing a pair of hearphones, discovering new music. Playing random instruments in the street. Taking a nap, looking at the cieling, or staying on a roof, just watching the dark sky around me, star gazing. Spending the night at the beach and watching its sunset and sunrise in order to photograph them and look at the pictures everytime I feel low. Giving birth to memories. Speaking French, Spanish, Russian. Learning by who feels the need to teach, with no arrogance nor conceit, just for the sake of telling stories. Telling stories, hearing and commenting them. Writing and writing, until my hands and my fingers implore me to stop, even when my brain and my mind are tired. Laughing until my face paralyses and I need to massage my cheeks. Laughing until I cry. Crying and not being judged for it. Crying with who needs to and comfort them and being comforted. Being hugged until I fall asleep in my hugger’s arms and sleeping of a fairly and ristorative sleep, everyday having a beauty rest. Dressing up nice, always being elegant and classy, going to the theatre and to the cinema. Being independent and literally not having to look after anyone. Being truly happy.
I’m trapped in a life I don’t belong to.
I do apologise in advance for the complete mess my mind gave birth to. It’s more of an experiment, a sort of brainstorming, whose text won’t be revised neither corrected nor read in the meanwhile. I know it’s hard to be appreciated, but I feel like it needs to be a thing, it needs to exist, as incomplete and chaotic as it is.
I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s way easier to get sad than to try and be happy. The latter sentence is the whole point of this post, I’ve decided to write it first in order to catch anyone’s attention. Likes and views aren’t as many as what you all made me used to in those three initial months. You’ve just seen me throwing a little vent in a subtle way, just to slightly complain about how my blog is going. Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you: it’s 11:53 pm of any Thursday and, since I’m running out of ideas, I’ll just brainstorm any sentences which come up to my mind. I’m not even starting new lines because I’d love you to read what I’m writing just as I’m doing it, confusedly but remotely logic. Enough of my yammering and back to the beginning: I really envy truly happy people. I do. Because… how? But, most importantly: why? The angry part of my personality is the first one to answer (“Because they’ve never had to go through any rough moments during the course of their life.) Well, you’re probably right and I’d be tended to utterly agree with you. I mean, every truly happy person (or who called themeselves so) I’ve ever met has always lived an amazing life and still does. When they tell me about what they consider “problems”, I’d like to punch them in the face and make them live just 1/4 of what I’ve been forced to face. That’s the same logic of those parents (mine included) that tell their children: “Oh baby love, think about African or Asian kids… they’re starving and would die to eat what you’re throwing a tantrum for”. I’ve always hated those whimsical kids and I’m shamed I was one of them for a brief period of my life. Anyway: I was going to contradict myself and say something like: “Yeah, my anger says so but actually I believe happy people are brave enough not to be put down”, but I’m not going to say it because that’s not what I think. It’s not that I hate happy people, I would never hate something I aim to. I just won’t understand them. Why me and not you? Why do you have the chance to live the perfect life and I was taken away that possibility? That automatically leads to another important issue: if you think that your past doesn’t and shouldn’t define yourself, quit reading NOW. It’s o b v i o u s that your life, God, destiny, call it as you want, has never made you think about suicide. Because, trust me, when you’re close to doing such an obnoxious and lame act, you’ve really had enough. And, of course, since the day you where saved (by another person or by yourself), you’ll never be the same and that will always affect your way of thinking, of speaking, of apologising, of arguing, of living. By saying that, I wasn’t trying to get your pity or become the new “suicide girl“. I was just trying to tell a story. The story of an unhappy person who is tremendously jealous of the happy. Could I be any more selfish and self-centered? I highly doubt so.