Someone said: "whatever".
I'm not writing on my Italian LJ.
I don't really know why, but I know: when I opened this LJ, I needed to have a space in which writing with a language that didn't smells like something familiar. Can you understand me? I hope yes.
This evening I said:
"It's something strange and new... I feel like anyone can understand me. I don't know a person to whom say what I am knowing that I'll be understood."
But it's not something new... But this time I appear like a calm and without-problems person. I'm not a recluse who runs off - and the whole world will die. I am here, but I'm like a frame: if you come near me, you see that I'm the reflex of myself. I talk and smile, and walk and say "hello" - I make actions, but I have not reactions. You can smile, laugh, cry or joke: Myself won't change.
Isn't it grotesque?
People go ahead, streets are full of human beings; I feel them, I feel the idea of their emotions, intentions, wishes, believes. Sometimes I feel this idea so hard that I'm waterlogged, the container is going to burst - but if you look at me while I'm with people you see that I'm calm and placid, kind and pleasing.
I hate this kind of sensation.
I hate the black hole complex - a cool hole in which lava's boiling.
I hate the moments in which I love humanity if it's away from me, because the old doubt bobs up: so I don't love humanity, isn't it? Or rather... I love humanity but there's something in me that I must solve; is it the right answer? Is it the first one or the second one?
I'm in the habit of exploiting my brain for every things that touches my life. Bad habit, I know. I began writing when I was a stupid brat who wanted to save her thoughts. No-sense thoughts, without connection; thought of a stupid brat with a voracious ego. You can talk with yourself for an age; o wonderful dialogue, you cannot think that the other one is stupid. Bad habit, what a bad habit. Writing on a LJ instead of thinking silently doesn't change the fact: I'm not confronting myself with someone who's not myself. I can act like I'm doing it, but it's a fake; people give thanks to me, they give thanks for the words that I write, that I said; for the things that I do; for the person that I am. They give thanks to a wall, decorated and baroque - and take a look at these wonderful low reliefs, o interesting decorations!
Today a test asked me what's the most important thing. Being true to yourself, I answered. I have to do. But what will happen if I'll find out a freak?
I don't really know why, but I know: when I opened this LJ, I needed to have a space in which writing with a language that didn't smells like something familiar. Can you understand me? I hope yes.
This evening I said:
"It's something strange and new... I feel like anyone can understand me. I don't know a person to whom say what I am knowing that I'll be understood."
But it's not something new... But this time I appear like a calm and without-problems person. I'm not a recluse who runs off - and the whole world will die. I am here, but I'm like a frame: if you come near me, you see that I'm the reflex of myself. I talk and smile, and walk and say "hello" - I make actions, but I have not reactions. You can smile, laugh, cry or joke: Myself won't change.
Isn't it grotesque?
People go ahead, streets are full of human beings; I feel them, I feel the idea of their emotions, intentions, wishes, believes. Sometimes I feel this idea so hard that I'm waterlogged, the container is going to burst - but if you look at me while I'm with people you see that I'm calm and placid, kind and pleasing.
I hate this kind of sensation.
I hate the black hole complex - a cool hole in which lava's boiling.
I hate the moments in which I love humanity if it's away from me, because the old doubt bobs up: so I don't love humanity, isn't it? Or rather... I love humanity but there's something in me that I must solve; is it the right answer? Is it the first one or the second one?
I'm in the habit of exploiting my brain for every things that touches my life. Bad habit, I know. I began writing when I was a stupid brat who wanted to save her thoughts. No-sense thoughts, without connection; thought of a stupid brat with a voracious ego. You can talk with yourself for an age; o wonderful dialogue, you cannot think that the other one is stupid. Bad habit, what a bad habit. Writing on a LJ instead of thinking silently doesn't change the fact: I'm not confronting myself with someone who's not myself. I can act like I'm doing it, but it's a fake; people give thanks to me, they give thanks for the words that I write, that I said; for the things that I do; for the person that I am. They give thanks to a wall, decorated and baroque - and take a look at these wonderful low reliefs, o interesting decorations!
Today a test asked me what's the most important thing. Being true to yourself, I answered. I have to do. But what will happen if I'll find out a freak?