I am at my sisters house., I arrived. She lives with her boyfriend, a nice life in a nice apartment with even a nicer view. Their house watches the sea, I watch the sea, their view, now being alone, sitting on their couch. Their house is a sweet disposition, their dream their laugh. I will stay here drink a coffee same procedure; I will steal some of their glory and then back on my own. They love each other; it’s nice, not just nice, majestic, breathtaking, vivid like them. In the midst of their insignificant life they found their significant other, they are whole, you see they are together there is where their beauty lies.
On my fb page, millions of wishes, that’s nice, friends, lovers, wanna be lovers, strangers, my fb page is whole I am not.
Stressed about the party still… which bar shall I take them to? How many people? Which people? Two options, Booze or locomotiva, two options he has life or death. I am searching the place that will give me a sense of wholeness of being completed, my friend struggles to decide if he will end up alive or dead. Both ways though he will be mutilated, broken. There are many ways to become broken, a failed attempt to kill yourself is the worst, you can’t forget that, if you survive, you can't forget it. How can you? your mutilated life keeps reminding you of it.
Final decision is taken. Booze it is, in case we don’t like it there will always be another bar to go too. You see this is the advantage with life you have choices. Maybe insignificant ones, minuscule, tiny, indifferent, but still they are choices, you chose, you can be chosen, you can find, you can be found. I am not broken yet, but I am sad. I am 28 years old, today is my birthday and I know already two people that committed a suicide. I am not without hope, I just don’t understand why hope disappears, lets down some people.
One of them was my father, nice guy, sensitive, weak, all the time taking bad decisions. I do not hold it against him. You see I was one of his bad decisions too. Don’t get me wrong, I loved him, I still do it’s crazy, he loved me but he shouldn’t have kids, it’s hard I know, but some people just shouldn’t have kids. I don’t think he ever understood what it is to be a father. He needed friends, he had friends that was enough. He himself remained a child a lost one, drowned by responsibilities, he couldn’t take it, he was sensitive you see. If he had the same amount of addiction to life as in alcohol now he might have been alive, but I guess life for him was also insignificant. People are those who set priorities, I don’t blame them this is what people do.
Curious, is what you write autobiographic?
ReplyDeleteIf so what is it that you want to write, tell? Do you have something specific to tell us (a story, a message) or you just want to share your thoughts?
You told me you want to order your thoughts, is writing them down a way of ordering for you?
The above part you start of strong i think. You are an observer of other peoples way of living. Liked the melancholic way of looking at other peoples happiness. Then you go back to your own thinking, also good, however then i personally think you 'hop' to quickly from one thought to the other. THe story of your father is a relevant one. I think a story on its own? not an ending paragraph.
Sorry if i am too direct, actually i want not to give an opinion, just think along.
He georgous, give you a sweet hug, from one of your so called facebook friends
No I really do enjoy your comments.. :) Well the Cold February Days "text" is separated so far into parts. This part is the fourth. They are mine thoughts around some events which took place around the date of my birthday. So i think that if you read it all part by part you will find the connection. So no I do not think that it is something that will end (of course it will have an end) but still in my mind it is fresh.
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