I shouldn't be writing this

It's windy outside.
This city has this special relationship with constant wind and with danger.
I'm high. My friend gives me a ride home and I walk beside the trash truck. Almost like an escape from any danger on the other side of the street.
There is nothing special in this. I always look back, from the corner of the eye. High or sober. Or tired. Very tired.
I feel like having my chest bursting, but I can't seem to be capable of writing down my feelings. What if I started drawing? All over again?
I have plans and ideas for some collages. The same plan I used to have with a story that I have never written again. I have plans to sit in front of the paper with pencils sharpened (even the colouring ones) and just let it flow. Like she said to me too many times, alowing myself to express myself (is this even correct?), even if only with a simple dot.

I keep pushing away opportunities. I keep pushing people away.
Don't come that close. Come on! How dare you?

I keep my fear. My fear of stalking. Of being stalked again.
I keep my fear of being sexually assaulted, no matter how much people may believe that I'd be glad for having that happening to me.

I am a constant shadow walker.
I dare myself.
And that's daring life.
Luck.
God.
The Universe.

I keep walking in the darkness of the night.
Someone may pull that trigger. The trigger might doesn't exist at all.
I keep walking the darkness of the night.
The voices flow to far.
This never stops here. I crave for the quietude of my beloved countryside. I must leave this place. I must go away and leave it all behind.

I keep walking the streets. The dark streets at night.
And the danger keeps stalking.
I shouldn't be writing this.

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