I hate myself for remembering things I thought I'd forgotten. Persons I thought I'd forgotten. Conversations. Afternoons. Even the never-ending sad moments.
I hate myself for wishing that things were different. That things were the same as they were some time ago. That I were in peace. I hate myself for wishing not to feel. For wishing not to love. For wishing to live in that sweet indifference I used to, when it was easier not to care, when I was so sure about my future.
I hate regretting the things I did. I hate missing the times when I had only dreamt about going away. I hate thinking to start hating Spain. Do I make any sense? Guess not...
The sun is shinning and I'm stuck at work. Maybe that's the reason for my melancholic state of mind. I hate the air conditioning that makes me not being able to breathe normally. And I'm wondering how much time do we have left and who will be the first one to give up the fight for this incredibly beautiful dream.
Niciun comentariu:
Trimiteți un comentariu