I certainly did not need the extra hour. All of a sudden I sleep more, because now I believe I can afford it.

In the light of November I noticed that October has already taken away all the autumn leaves and there is no more going back. I only regret not having gone for a second and last walk up the hill.

It is now cooler outside and the snow rain has wet my feet and legs already.

I’m wearing the warmest hoodie that I brought from home last year. Up to this day it hasn’t been washed, not in this place, which is why I’ve tried not to wear it as much. It smells of the washing detergent that my mum uses. I don’t know the name of it. I can’t get any of my clothes to smell homely like this hoodie, and it kind of makes me sad, sad in a way as though I cannot look after myself, or make anywhere feel homely. And one way to prove that I can look after myself is to push people away. I push them away before I get too comfortable and before I feel like I am taking them for granted. This is the good people that I care about.

I do my own shopping and help wherever I can, but I myself will not ask for help. The fear is based on collecting debt. Even if not required I would take the time to return the favor and I don’t feel like I have the time. As terrible as it may sound, my gratefulness can be tiresome for me.

I’ve been in need of a lot of alone time recently, all triggered by the need to open my mouth and utter what I don’t want to utter. All this accumulates and creates a bad taste in the back of my tongue. If they think I am socially awkward then I must be. I choose to walk away if I have nothing to say and ultimately I would be classified as quiet and boring. The lack of social skills, outgoingness and fun-to-be-with has put me under a lot of pressure and no one can tell. The attempt to change it has been a burden because the job, relationship and environment require all these traits, which I just don’t have.  So much is expected from me that it has started to hurt. For the first time in the last year I noticed how exhausted I am in my head, because I have been investing so much time to all these things that I am not. In each new period of my life I’ve tried to adopt these required traits to my life and each time I fail – all because I am trying to be someone that I am not. Every time I fake a smile or repeat a meaningless sentence a part of me crumbles away.  And every time you realize that you’re not part of the league it’s because you are different. So you condemn yourself for it. Why? You are in a club full of happy, dancing and drinking people – next to you is your loving boyfriend, who, you know, could easily become part of this crowd, but he chooses to stand next to you while you’re soberly absorbing this overwhelming party scene. In the end it didn’t matter how much I was looking forward to celebrate Halloween and how much I wanted to be part of it; I just wasn’t and couldn’t. It was beyond my ability to make it feel right. I was ready to go. Before stopping people from having fun, or getting accused of not trying to have fun, I was ready to go. I am always ready to go. I didn’t want to drink, but if I could have shot some cocaine or anything similar, I would have, everything just to make the music penetrating the center of my head more bearable.

Even if I explain the torment in my chest the words usually fall on deaf ears. It all shall remain on paper always and never be spoken no more.


Either that or everyone is just a better actor. You see happy selfies on all your social networks every day and you get sick in your stomach. These people are merely clever. Laugh and the world will laugh with you. Why not skip this part of attention and do something else instead, something more creative? Some people just want to be celebrated so badly and they will always be when spreading some form of happiness in a selfie or telling everyone that they’re now organ donors. What a shame that I am only interested in what they cannot talk about. This is why we can never be friends. And this is why I don’t have many friends here. I used to mourn over it every day. Then I tried to be like you and it didn’t work. But that’s ok.

There’s nothing wrong with being who you really are. I guess I am too demanding and selfish, being on a never-ending journey of searching inspiration and self-therapy. If you have nothing heartbreaking to share with me I just don’t have the ears to listen. So I read stories with good plots. Not only do they help remember and improve my English, but they also stir something inside of me that I love to investigate – inspirations worth developing. Eventually they will be worth sharing. This is how you find people that understand you and empathize with you. Nowadays people are just too scared to share their souls, which makes me sad and makes me want to put a gun in my mouth.

All I want to do is focus on my work whenever I can and piece together disjointed fragments of my bad writing and envision an alternate reality that gives me space, just space. I need space.

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