My emo self, depressed and doomed, hiding behind endless phrases, that are hidden behind ever-changing words. Walking down the known street, that I have tried to fit deep within my soul-without the people, of course, people come and people go, leaving the street the same, or chaging it, bit by bit, piece by piece-I have realised it grew longer, like a regenerating lizard, with its tail cut. Or I have turned old and heavy, too rusty to lift my feet off the ground.
Wearing a long, flowery dress, unacceptable for today's society, I kept on walking, with the same pace, till I saw three emoids. I greeted them in my mind, stared at their well-matched outfits.
I don't know why I write in English. Or I know: confessions are easier to make in a different language, that doesn't give you so many chances to lie.
In the old park, when I looked at a group of young men, sitting on some benches in an open wooden...er, I don't remember...gazebo, one of them shouted: "This!" In te next moment, I was hit with some plain fruit in my chest. Though I didn't say anything, my head was full of swear words, about their mom, dad and other people.
In front of the hotel, some mixed-up group. Old men, staring at me. One even smooched.
Sick, sad world...
I remember the time I condemned my peers, that lived their life to the fullest, that had a love to share, that had the courage to act the way they felt. I was mysanthropic, alright, yet, I wasn't the only one, in a small town, where people fought for their privacy. Nowadays, I condone what I've condemned and I condemn what I have condoned for years.
