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the end has no end

i believe in forever, because when things end, they end forever.

i need someone to believe in things with me.

happy endings don’t exist, that’s what the pollitically correct ones tell us, the ones that want to destroy the fairytales. that we aren’t able o believe in religions, but we want to believe in the eternal love from our childhood storybooks. we want some candy to our souls, not the eternal curse, thank you.

there’s a crisis in every fairytale, just like normal life. let’s pretend you have a shitty day and get fired. in a fairytale, you’r poisoned by the evil witch’s apple and fall into a deep sleep, just like you’re dead. ok, fairytales are clearly more poetic than life itself. anyway, in both cases your prince comes, gives you a kiss and you finally wake up. in the real world, you still don’t have a job and won’t be able to buy that book you’ve been wanting for ages. it makes you think “ok, maybe things aren’t that bad”, and you don’t live ahppily ever after. you go to the bedroom or just hook up in the stairs, where the PG rated movie ends. but the moral of the real story, and of its “once upon a time” version too, is that when you top following the story, the characters are happy and together. and that’s what matters. that’s what i want.

‘cause i don’t have a reason to wake up every morning, knowing that i have this routine to stick up to, if i don’t have anyone with me. no one waiting for mw to come home in the end of the day, eaiting to know if we’re going out for dinner or just staying in and having sex and ordering some pizza. because you know, when it ends, it’s the end.

depression.

are we ever going to be satisfied? isn’t what we have enough? why do we have to insist on waiting for complete happiness when we don’t even believe it exists? it’s the forever they taught us to believe it’s eternal as it lasts, but without “buts”. it doesn’t exist. when nothing’s wrong, nothing’s right either. if it is, it won’t last long that way. a lot of people may think it’s depression, but it isn’t. sylvia plath once said it was just staying under the glass. air doesn’t enter, air doesn’t get out. unbreathable, rarified. everything ouside is blurried to the one suffocated in its own breathing.

it came closer. i couldn’t believe it yet. that’s the sensation, right? but why?

trent reznor said: i focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real.

to me, it’s a feeling of insignificance in the eyes of the world. a feeling of a grain of sand in the beach, a person before the planet. being small, when the magnitude of all the rest is there, mocking you. but at the sime time, knowing that if you blow softly, it would cause a hurricane on the other side of the world.

all my life, i felt i was half of something.

i’m something that doesn’t exist without the obvious. peanut butter, that doesn’t exist without jam.

the emptiness in my stomach every time i have to leave.

i’m the eggbox. without me, they break. without them, i’m useless.

and that’s it. pieces. fragments.

because that’s the truth. i was trying to end it, but it has no end. they always tell half of the story.

because we don’t know the end. and we’ll never know.