Talk to yourself.

Feel that someone is listening.

Just as I’m here to write these, and you are here to read them.

No idea, no spark, I am just being personal.

In this fleeting moment, just as I sit here, enjoying this persona of a writer.

This persona, of which I tried to rid myself oh so many times. I fought it, repressed it with force and determination. As I used to wake up every day commanding: I am to study, I am to work, I am not to smoke weed, I am not to complain.

And the funny thing is, after all this time, and after all this harm it caused, I miss him.

I miss myself, the playfulness, “the lying child”, the one that brings great shame to myself and my father.

The one that was a cigarette butt, a dirty spark, that was to be put out with silent anger.

“You are not to be childish, you are to make money, you are to be successful.”

Well, I was poor, and I was begging for money from my father, and now I have my own, and I admit, money is good.

A painted myself white as a wall. And moved as robots should through corridors. And was not listening to my pain. And got forward, and got better at everything life demands, and on the road, I filled up my mind with noise to not be distracted, and now here I am.

Something’s missing.

Twilight dreamer's Dear Diary