on a Sunday evening in the beginning of summer
you wake up in the morning with the best intentions.
you fall asleep with the best intentions.
inside the walls you rose no thing gets in, no thing goes out. it often rains in there.
you have acquired mechanical habits that tear at your insides every time you repeat them.
the futility of your efforts hurts you.
it’s just strain and tears.
and just happen to flow in a well every time you came across one. and once at the bottom complaining about the dark, the damp, and the fact that you always end up in a well.
you just deserve to drown in it.
but since you continue to fucking suck, you start thinking about changing the world. the therapy must be stronger than the disease.
if any of this of all this is your fault. whose fault is it?
For to the one who has, more will be given. But whoever does not have, even what he has will be taken away.
the life you live is made of bad omens.
how can dare the world continue to run after something like that? if you challenge yourself on the things you deem important, you will become aware that you have always failed.
if you were here I’d be home now, she said
as long as I have a face, you will have a place to sit, he replied
