“By being too sensitive I have wasted my life.”
— Arthur Rimbaud
There are days I want to open up and spill my guts.
There’s static in my inner voice.
If you ask me "How are you?"
I'd say "I'm not sure if I can't breathe
or if I don't want to breathe".
Choked by memories
Tortured by Anhedonia
Paralyzed by Failure
Flirting with Nihilism
Estranged from Melomania
Lacking Romantic Endeavours
Inside a complete lack of motivation and dicipline
I'm too old to de-fragment myself. It's too late to rebuild, to Push the button and restart.
"Remembrance, like Rembrandt, is dark but festive."
— Vladimir Nabokov