It's strange for me thinking that I haven't became someone,
It's strange thinking that I haven't created nothing of important,
It's hard to admit that I haven't started the revolution
And, surely, I'll never start it,
Never lead it, but neither lived it like a pawn
It's painful to see that I won't be what people dream to be,
To find out that I am not,
And maybe never been, two steps ahead everyone, anymore
But that I'm there following,
Struggling.
It's worrying to realize that all is blocked,
Knowledge doesn't increase, not understanding everything.
It's humiliating not being able to write anything more,
Leaving blank pages or writing dull phrases,
Being ashamed not to lay bare,
But showing how I fill my emptiness of banalities.
It's discouraging to feel drained of the inmost feelings,
Of that pantheistic love,
Of Her that used to give a sense.
And it's discouraging being able to let Her realize...
How everything is Her child and Her creature:
It's embarrassing to show Her, for how it's ugly and drab.
And not being able to fill Her of me empties me...
It's terrible not being able to get up every day,
Not even being able to follow the everyday, not to move a step,
Being locked in my cage, laying down by my things.
Depression is the most sublime egotism
It's absurd not being able to breathe,
Feeling crushed by my own essence,
The burden of having to be and not wanting to remain,
At least not this way,
And carrying on breathing... breathing...