A friend of mine told me I’m ok with all this sufferin’, as if I really mean to be like this to punish somebody or to, even worst, punish myself. Maybe once I refused to give my parents the awful pain caused by my death, but now there’s nothing… really nothing that wants me to be here.
If I’d have the opportunity to love and to be loved, I’d go through everykind of pain and sufference to scream I’m still here and I want to fight again. ‘Cause I want to live, not to survive. There are still so many things I love… the peaceful melody of a piano, the poetry inside a canvas, English Literature (even programming videogames)… but no one of these can give a sense to my life. Still waiting… I’ll be tired of all this routine. I struggle everyday for a few minutes a day, when I rest and think that I’m somehow glad to be still here. I cannot leave me to die, not yet.
I’d only like to be sure I’ll think like this this night when I’ll be alone.