Confessions on a dancefloor.

‘Going back isn’t that bad’, he said, without the slightest inflexion of fear under his tone.

I miss my old life, my old inconsequent self.
I miss the parties; I miss the libidinous glares, the constant concern to keep it alive, beautiful and real. I miss coke, I miss smoking joints as if they were cigarettes. I miss music, having time, hanging out and giving long walks on the beach at 10 am, after hitting the club. I miss artificial relationships and having no real interest on others. I miss YOUTH. I miss
I miss living the dream.
But dreams… they die. And we are forced into waking up to the irritating buzz of our room’s alarm clock, tossed and revolved beneath our bed, next to a pile of books and bills and a baby crying.
I’m homesick, although I never had a real home.
Hangovers don’t seem that bad, now, when putting it to perspective… at least you feel, you feel any freaking thing other than this oozing numbness coming from inside and taking control.
Is it rape if you enable it? Well, guess than that’s make it_
I was nothing, but at least I was happy and fulfilled.
I didn’t care about anyone, but at least I was taken care of.
Has it any worth, walking this Earth half asleep?

‘Stick to the present’, he said, and triumph hit him hard. He smiled and looked up to the sky. Twenty minutes to boarding. He was living the dream.

Sometimes the biggest risk of all can be to simply say “No.” and stick to your own convictions. It doesn’t hurt… at least that much.
I quit dreams, I quit aspirations, I quit everything except hoping that maybe one day the pain, the blood, the sweat and tears will be rewarded. Because although I have nothing, at least I am something. And, as for now, I choose the hardest path of all… Not going.
I’m not afraid. I want to go, and leave, and take a chance out there. But it seems empty and shallow, meaningless, and too big of a risk just for a few happy years.
… But will I ever have happy years staying?
Probably not. Not even on the long run.
Maybe I’m not entitled to being happy, I’m not worth it. It sucks, but It’s better to live it up and work with what you’ve got than spend your life complaining – when it gets down to it, the ones that

I’m dead, inside. But at least I’m not screwing my way around just to have short-term pleasure. Joy? Let others have it.
I don’t need it do keep up with my obligations. And I will do them, well.
I will be the best, even if I don’t feel it.

Well, it isn’t very nice to know… is it? But you needn’t worry: I can put up with a pretty picture-perfect everyday show. For as long as it takes.
At least it’s not lying to myself.

I miss you.
I love you.
You saved me without even knowing; but where the hell are you now?


just doesn't go with living in society.

I'm sorry sweetie, but I'm not sorry at all. If I'd make plans to hang out with a narcissistic bitch, I'd stick to my bathroom mirror.


If, hypothetically speaking, you'd go from C to B, being A, wouldn't that qualify as going backwards? Quid iuris?