It is six in the morning, and the sun must look beautiful as it rises again, and in any case, I will limit myself to imagining it on the walls of my room, since I’m still captive in this confinement. However, no one is keeping me locked up but myself. The days have become repetitive and boring, and my tired mind cannot find comfort in ordinary activities that once knew how to amuse me. Life has become unbearable for me, and my time is no longer measured in hours, minutes or seconds, but in agitated breaths that lead to nothing. Somehow, the hope that embraced me at the beginning of the year has disappeared along with my health, and it has no longer shown interest in returning. As I sit on my bed, I wish that this is temporary, a simple syndrome from being twenty. That cursed decade of the twenties. Was anyone ever completely happy? I doubt it; because if you have health, you don’t have time; if you have time, you have no health; if you have time and health, you probably don’t have any money, and you will never be satisfied. Anyway, I think conformity ruins ambition, but it is also necessary in our daily lives. I am not referring to materialism, or else you would end up like those guys who change appliances and cell phones every year, every time some multimillion dollar company launches a new product even more useless and expensive than the previous year. Geeks, they might be called, but more than one has fallen into the insurmountable circle of unsatisfied possession.
I wish I could satisfy my hunger with material things, but I know for sure that this sorrow has nothing to do with it. I would like to go shopping and fill my closet; shoes, boots, blazers, skirts, dark stockins, lipstick, blah. I think I would also buy new books that I would leave in my library and never read, because motivation no longer lives in my body. And I’ve tried to talk about it, but I just can’t. I miss childhood and the emotions that it meant, why don’t we scream anymore? Why don’t we play hide and seek, or chase each other? Why are we no longer afraid of being alone because of the darkness, but because of the loneliness itself? I still don’t get it.
Screaming is something so primitive, so natural, so necessary. Have you ever screamed so loud that your throat burned and your body felt irrational relief? Why don’t we scream anymore? And I’m not talking about a simple high tone, but a guttural, wild, unhinged, lively, happy and energetic sound. I am not an adult but a girl in the wrong body, or at least that is how it feels every time I realize that, in front of my peers, I am nothing more than an immature creature. Or at least I think so, maybe we are all just as devastated.
