No sé dónde estuve el 26 de mayo pero el único recuerdo que dejé fue esta mierda en el drive.

The mere fact of being sitting in this room makes me feel stupid. Was this really necessary? Did you have to leave that kind of print? What is your plan, to later proof everybody they were wrong?  They were always right. Although, I’m quite good at tricking myself, the fantasy takes over when I decide to leave, it sets all the perfect scenarios, and fills every space and every sound, making them look fake, but caressing the feeling that grows within, making pleasure out of soaring, and that will be my burden. One of many. And I can’t quite get to know how to get rid of them. They hide whenever I’m not looking, and then, when they just seemed to be gone, the reappear, kind of similig, as if they were trying to tell me that I have been a fool to believe the healing was going to be spontaneous,to believe the world does actually work the way I believe it so. And it sucks. And it’s going to hurt all over. Scratching scars to heal was never the way to go. I should’ve known better. It was all about the drama. Fuck off. Fuck it. And fuck the hostile world. Necesito alguien que me aferre al suelo, una boya o algo, un golpe de realidad, porque la realidad no viene, por qué no me lo puede decir la realidad todo a la cara, y en cambio tengo que confabular como una esstúpida. Loca.