Memoir, November 8th

“I don’t want to think
I don’t want to be
I am slowly disappearing
Out there
within the shadows
in the darkness?”

I don’t know why do I even bother doing this shit. Keep trying. To get out of bed in the morning. To keep this fake smile stuck to my face. To think that I can finally make it. How many times did I try? I can’t even count it. And the point is I failed every single time. And I have everything that a successful person should. Beauty, talent, intelligence, strength. And yet it’s not enough. It never was. Time goes by, I get older and I lose hope that I could change my life. That I could be… no, not happy. That’s an overstatement. Let’s keep it real. But at least feel better, you know? Like not miserable all the time.

Shit, it sounds so pathetic when I read it. But I figured that instead of feeling sorry for myself in the silence of cold walls I can write it here. I even had this stupid idea to try it as a therapy. I for sure need one. But I was never brave enough to face my demons. To talk about those terrible, sad shadows of the past.

I kept a journal when I was 12 until 17, I think. And I started it again a few years back when there was a global motherfucking crisis and I was unemployed just like many other graduates. I remember I had to go the unemployment office and I felt like a trash. Like the worst loser ever. I was young, educated, capable of things, I knew few languages and I ended up in the same place as hobo’s and drunks. I survived. Yet again. Such a winner, congrats!

I don’t know if keeping a journal back then helped me. Maybe a little. Because the loneliness I experienced at that time wasn’t just a sad concept. It was a breathing creature. It was so palpable, real and alive that it became my only friend. There was no one else.

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