Well...dawn came and went, the sky's still weeping. I feel like I'm seeing the future.
Tears.
I see tears in my future.
What I came to realize, is that I'm waiting for a fucking miracle. I am, and feel sad to admit it. Because I don't believe in such things. No miracles. Ever.
No. Fucking. Miracles.
They don't exist. Not to this thing, this being, that was born a man, but it's gonna die like a monster that he became. A pile of fucking regrets. A pile of rubbish.
I've been promised, well, not "promised", but rather offered - a miracle, in terms of biochemical drugs, a miracle. Something that will change me. Something that will limit me, in terms of diet and food consumption. A single steak, unbeknownst to me, in a restaurant, may have been prepared with something that may trigger an onset of sudden death.
I feared for such thing, at first. I did, and was put back on my place bluntly: you're already suicidal. What's the fucking difference?
Really. What's the fucking difference. The sky's weeping, and I know these are the only truthfully sad tears I'm going to get, when the time comes, and I'll set sail from this living hell of a life I've made to me - I know, it's all on me. My fault. Me. The runaway. The middle-aged eternal loser.
Middle age. It's a funny thing. At least to men. My old man, when it hit him, threw it all away, burned cash like 50 bucks bills were meant to be burned. Spent it all, drove the entire family he built throughout his life to madness, including me.
Me? I'm just like him. Even worse, I suppose. Because in my middle age, I've come to realize I haven't really achieved even HALF of what he achieved in his life.
I'm an extended version of my father. And I'm even worse than he ever was.
All chances I've been given, I turned down. All the years of study on universities and schools proved to be meaningless, in the long run. I've amounted close to nothing. I've got less than a hundred bucks on my account, while he had millions. He had kids, a wife, a family, even if it wasn't indeed, the "dream family" of each and everyone who'd commit to that.
All I've got are piles of unfinished sketches, callused fingers that will never be as good as a youngster I've met this very weekend. And it made me envious. It made me realize, even if I spend twelve hours playing, I've got no real idea of what I'm doing, because I got no musical background, not a real one, at least.
And that is another thing that I should've let die amongst the pile of broken dreams stored in the recesses of this...brain. Of this malfunctional thing.
I've been offered a miracle, yes. Do I believe in it? No.
What is this thing called life?
70-80% of people find life, in their lives. I've found a desire to end it. Because, to me, it ain't a life. It is. A. Fucking. Hell. On. Earth.
I've tried everything in the pharmaceutical department, except for this so-called "miracle". Call me faithless, ungrateful, spoiled, lazy, whatever you want - you won't be far off from the fucking truth.
I am tired. Of me. I am tired, of this endless struggle, me vs. me. I've come to middle age, always struggling, and I've always lost. Why will it be different from now on?
I. Am. Tired.
And I know I've made a promise - but let another truth be told - "promises are made to be broken."
I woke up restless as ever. But I appear calm. Docile. I've decided to accept my fate. Too late for miracles, at least at this very point of my so-called life.
I'm fucking old. And as the saying goes, the older you get, the grumpier you'll get. Never heard of it? It's one of my personal sayings, so to speak. As is, "the older I get, dimmer gets the future."
I am tired. I'm sad, and lonely, even if surrounded by a million people, I just can't avoid the feeling that I'm not really there with them - I'm locked inside, a solitaire cell I've built for myself. A place where no one can reach me, do no harm, nor good. A place I'm feeling, as the years fly by, even more and more stuck to- permanently locked.
And I'm sick of it. And since there are no miracles, nothing will break these walls around me.
I'm sick of it. I'm sick of this planet, these people - even the ones who try to help me, they come across this unbreakable thing - and eventually, they give up.
Like I'm doing. I'm giving up.
I am to old for this shit. Too tired, of being this Monster I've become.
"Then change! Change your way, change you thoughts! Change your life!"
How can you change a life of a thing that's already dead? That's been dead, for at least 17 years? That was dead for 10 years prior to a pension which I'd have to work for more twenty fucking years to get it for granted?
I am dead. I will be actually dead, in a matter of months, so I reckon.
Because there are no miracles. And the sky's weeping, because someone up there already knows it. Already knows my future.
The sky weeps.
For a dead man that's standing still, reeking of nicotine, trying in vain to feel whatever he had to let go, the only medicine, even though illegal, that brought peace to his mind, in all this wasted years of this middle aged, unloved, unburnt, "unharmed" thing that reflects to me as a fucking Monster in every mirror I look upon.
I am dead. I will be dead. Sooner than later. There is no promises, not anymore. There are no guarantees, as ever. I am dead.
I will be dead before the year expires. I am quite convinced of that.
So be it.
