I live, even though I attest my incompetence to living well. Despite appetites and desires, I did not learn to devour the world without destroying me together to it. I fear the inability to deal with me and everything that orbits around me: fears, passions, hurts, pleasures, anxieties, sorrows. There are no weights to my chest. The intense ones drag me all away from me. I train myself for survival protecting me in a character I create walking on the shallow without any excess that overturns me. I curse what I condemn and lose what I love. My feelings are for home use, only. So, I deviate from the pain repeating my days evenly in a script that always gives me a blind and useless consistency. I keep alive with the help of routines and illusions to enclose a lucidity that I hold to not drown myself, not to be shattered by what I have not learned to deal with. I am my own misunderstanding and also a shock, among mistakes, the past, destinies, love, and others. I am a stranger to me without the courage to speak the language of my inner movements; taken from one scene to another seeking to look like what I was. What I’ve been will always be better than I was. And maybe the memory of what I had prevented me from having it. I live, although I declare it to be imperfect, stupidity, inability, bad driving in living myself. A declaration that does nothing to ease, since there is no contrary direction where it will temporarily save me.

My salvation is a daily exercise to which I exhaust myself under the surfaces of my sunny days and the dawns of my soul…❤