pathos and diary pages (I)

Tonight Boris is hanging to a bottle.

Fucking up. Because that is what he can do better.

The stories on the point of my pen seem to be always ending up in nothing. Everything starts and ends and there is nothing but void in between.

I don’t care about what life still has to give. I want to take what I want, not wait for some almsgiving shit.

I know it will be hard tomorrow but someone told me that it’s when it’s hard, that you can show you have a spine.

I have nothing left to break.

To the illusion and the hope I have felt, I say farewell. I am not able to hope without hanging on a thought of happiness and that hurts like hell.

I’d better burn (I would say…FUCK YEAH!) instead of staying here, living a virtual life without being able to manage the real one.

But this is so much better.

Here I can be the man I always wanted to be, strong, reliable, cool.

Out there I am nothing than a delicate branch braking at the first blow of the wind.

I ask forgiveness for the disappointment I cause and I wait for inspiration, while vomiting anger.