A sudden desire to write I pinched the skin. These days go by too fast, all the same, without a trace. I would like to stop, slow down the drain, breathe slowly. The fact is that there are things that fill our lives, heating it and painting it and when they fail, everything seems empty and gray. The problem is being able to feel their lives at all times, able to feel the excitement and beauty, able to feel the warmth and happiness, always looking at things smaller, more common and letting explode in joy. But no, who are they kidding? It's not easy. I'm trying, I swear. Seeking solace in the paper, in books, in the pen, in friends, family, small things ... they are always there to dig under the skin to feel a thrill, not to let me die ... but I feel like a sick person, a patient who watch the world go by from the window of a hospital. Maybe you are sick, sick of love. I console myself by thinking that it happens to everyone sooner or later, that things can not always go well, that love is continuous research, an obstacle course, a way to test themselves in the pursuit of happiness. Yet I can not explain this bitter taste, this pain. The truth is that I did not deserve this tragic end, I did not deserve these injuries. For a long time I blamed myself, I blamed my actions, my character, my attitude. But the truth is that anyone can go wrong, love goes beyond the errors. What they do not overcome the difficulties, can not be called love. So why? Why torment me, kill me like that? Why hurt me, throw all erode the memories? What was the need Too many lies, too bad ... and too much trust the wrong person. And yes, now I'm here to write, with this burden in my heart. But I do not give up, about something more. On a piece of happiness for me.
I leave you with the tale of Cupid and Psyche, by Apuleius of Metamorphoses.
Good evening, my dear readers.
Lizzy
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