Reflexões alcoólicas

Maybe when my mental sanity is in pieces. Maybe.
It couldn’t be any different. At the first Saturday (we’re almost on October) I’m home and making the impossible to fight (read it struggle) my crashing thoughts, they come with a supernatural force against me. It would be easy to see myself as someone who doesn’t care about life. It would be easy because others see me like that. No worries at all. What the fuck is this mirror? I can’t see this genuine reflection in the look of the audience. I simply and purely see a big fat lie. A centesimal of my essence. Certainly it’s better this way. Who would understand the dark ghosts that I feel gently touching my skin? Who would understand that the exaggerating, happy and bohemian girl they know is not only sex, alcohol and laughs? And most important: who would care?
The cliche ‘I dont know who I am’ takes completely over my senses at this point of my life. The worries with the future. With my inside madness. It’s not all bad, really it’s not, knowing what’s going on, being conscious what you feel, what you’re living. I know. I know what every step I take will proportionate in a close or distant future. There the cause of my asleep nights fit in. I don’t have any clues of what I want. Sure, there’s always that shittle explanation ‘it’s the age’. And I’m not being ironic. It can be. It can be a simples existencial crisis. Doubts. Yes, I’m a human being anyway. But I can’t seem to stop being confused when I observe and think about the vital decision of people around me, or even the one who aren’t around me, or aren’t even relative to me somehow. I even thought that it could be depression, but these are not the symptoms that bug me.
I want it. I want it so bad. I just don’t know what I want. Please, Devil, I don’t make up problems, actually I don’t even think I have problems. I see a exit way in each side I turn. I see roads. I see turn back. But I dont see myself in none of them. None! I want to belong to a satisfaction circle, but nothing seems to be the satisfaction ideal for me. Would it be only a routine and tedious crisis? Would it be so simples? Do I need changes? Is it only? Yes. It can be. It really would work. This theory, right? Is it a theory? How shallow Am I creating theorys to understand myself? Whatever. I have no freaking idea. I thought about several ways inside possible borderlines of my minority and financer dependence at this moment, but guess what? None attracts me as well. Seems like the books I read are chosen by the destiny, really. ''Gone with the Wind'' took with it all my rational personality and drove me into an abysm that back there appeared to me as infinite. ''The catcher in the Rye'' came simply to show me the mess I’m in.
Damn, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t express in an understanding or interesting way the hell, purgatory and heaven of Dante that calmly takes over my mind.
Finishing my night listening to ‘take my breath away – Berlin’ is so half empty glass till for me.