It’s weekend, and I am lying flat at home, no will to do anything work related.
I got up late in the morning, went to sleep in the afternoon, and wrote in the evening.
With the curtain put off, I felt isolated from the city and the nature. It’s a sunny day today, however, it can hardly cure me. There are two full waste bags and another half on the floor, as dirty as the condition without cleaning couple of months, in a 14 meter square studio flat. I am pushed so hard to survive, and too lazy to do the cleaning.
I was sleeping until couple minutes ago. I may not fall into deep sleep, instead of that, I was recalling. All those bad memeries felt like empty. All those good memeries (if there are some in my mind) eventually turn from happiness to their fragile sides.
I walked from the trauma past, while the expected future is still nothing exciting. All of these weave a black hole in my heart. I am dying every seconds, just like something lost in its quiet way, but you haven’t been aware of that until many years later.
Working is no more than doing. Doing is the first. Perhaps I can fill this empty with hard working. But I cannot get happiness in this way. It cannot cure me neither. It just lets me keep dancing, dancing.
Endless dancing off the cliff.
I am sensitive, I am fragile, I am in a trap. I am waiting for someone, or something happens.