Burden

This is some kind of burden. I want to write and not too long ago, some words were dancing within my mind. Here I am, smoking one cigarette (another one) and with my mind going blank, without anything to write about. This is what I have been through in the last months. Except for diary entries or even one letter or another, nothing comes out of my soul through the written form.

Who can imagine what goes within my soul? I laugh, I smile, I make jokes. Rare are the people who have a little idea of whatever goes within me. Rare are the people who can see through the surface, who can notice the cold feeling of emptiness. When I stop speaking, when I stare something and my soul runs from the prison of flesh and wanders through other places, no one notices.

Who can imagine what one feels?

The night is coming to an end, as my words, so I need to leave. I need to stop for now.

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