Things are not what they used to be. This stereotypical phrasing starts running through my mind, once in a few months, because my inner clock has this perpetual movement of disappointment that needs to be addressed.
And when things are not what they used to be, I start looking for ways out, because there’s too much doubt and not enough peace, and I am in one piece… Still.
I need my drunken music, and my beautiful covers, and my never-ending pause… I need my lies and I need to close my eyes. I need to tell myself that stories are just stories, and souls are just souls, and this weakness in me is just another way to pass the time.
In the back of my head, on the back of my hand, things are laid out like on a beautiful, monstrous canvas… There are words and feelings and fingers that point at the ones to be blamed. My lipstick is red, my feelings are dead. I am numb, number, the numbest. Life is a list and this list is a… What?!
I have forgotten things… I love, I hate, I belittle. I want a human… To love, to hate, to belittle. Things are just moments, life’s just a dream. Who am I?