Psyche

I write to survive the fact that I'm not living
it's just my way of injecting myself with morphine in this slow death.

I've had them all before, but not him, not quite yet, he remains a mistery to me.. He is utterly complex, his mind is beyond comprehension, and maybe that's why I will never be done with him.
No matter how hard it is, I always love him and I never give up.


Many times, I realize I am as misterious and also not even so clear to myself: it's what you are, what you think you are and the aspects that you show to others; which can also be neither of them.
There was no need for such complexity.. And you can't even pour it into a glass and drink it.. Just a waste.