"I was always working steady
But I never called it art [...]
In the prison of the gifted
I was friendly with the guards
So I never had to witness
What happens to the heart".
All
the stories that you wanted to live and write, caged in the work that you keep
on doing, although you keep on promising yourself that you’ll take a break, you’ll
take care of your heart, and you’ll stop. All the art you dreamed, changed in
school magazines or guides and procedures. All the places you wanted to see, still
waiting for you to have enough money and courage.
I am
fucking tired. Tired of misfortunes. Tired of always having to work so hard
for the things I want to achieve. Tired of all the noise in front of me, tired
of having to justify my introversion to the world, tired of grey, superfluous
people. Tired of work. Tired of meaningless. Tired of routine.
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