My excerpt of stories (EN)

SAD Thoughts

Damn I really wish I could write but i don't know why I just really can't anymore. I mean just the thought of opening openoffice made my heart pound harder and shit and I don't understand. I don't understand how I was able to write 50 pages on my neighbour and how I'm not even able to write a quote anymore. 

I don't know what I am, I mean, who I am.

Damn why is it so hard, it's just some fucking letters on a computer that you have to press in order to create words that will create quotes that will create stories. It's not that fucking difficult. You were able to do it before, why can't you anymore? is it all the drugs? Is it the disease? Is it the way your heart is in some weird place now? Is it because it has been broken in a too violent way? Why can't you think about what to draw? Why is your imagination hiding?

I have never written anything happy. I don't know why, And sometimes I like to think that maybe this is why I can't write anymore, because I can't write anything sad if I'm not sad? But maybe sometimes it's all lies, as the disease has showed me many times. Sometimes you think everything is gonna be alright, you think you won, but it's all an illusion. You didn't and you may never win. The thing is that after all, I still have some of those habits, you know like buying a thousand books to do a thousand things, and i keep doing this even if I know that those books are gonna end up in a closet somewhere in like 2 weeks, but it makes me feel like I'm not empty. Because at the end, maybe this is why I can't write or keep doing stuff or anything, maybe it's just because the depression and all the stuff that happened, they have just sucked up my soul, everything, and I'm just left alone and empty. Maybe that's why I prefer silence and loneliness, because it's the only way I can understand that deep down, I don't really exist anymore.

Not since I died. 

It makes me sad, to see all those people feeling bad, not understanding what's going on and hoping for a better tomorrow when I had a better tomorrow, the opportunity to understand what was going on and to feel good once again, to finally understand that maybe at the end it will never leave. 

And maybe a year from now, I'll think of myself as the one who did not understood what was going on, but then does it mean it will be like this year after year? Does it mean... I will never understand and maybe no one have and never will? And it's funny, when you talk about it to other people, you always except them to understand but they can't, even if they feel bad themselves because it's just so unique, so personal, so... inexistent. Because if you're the only one to be able to understand yourself, or at least to feel a certain feeling, but the others can't hear and/or understand you, it comes back as if it didn't exist. Maybe the only thing that are unique are just not real. I wonder, in a year, will I be looking back at this period with joy or sadness? Will I be thinking that I didn't know how bad it would get, or how good it would become? I wonder if a year from now I'll be fine, but really fine, not the type of fine I feel a month in a while. This fine is really great, it's more than a fine, it's like nothing could get me because I'm too happy. But this fine never lasts. But the sadness that comes after this fine is always so deep. And I know it's always waiting for me, waiting to get me, waiting to show me that I shouldn't have hope because at the end it'll always comme back to the same point. It will always come back to sadness and emptiness and never will it stay to happiness.

I remember how I thought it was easy. I was really a fool. I thought that, if I got away from Guadeloupe, If I went to a place where I know it would be great like Canada, then everything would change and I would just... Everything would be different, I remember being so empty and staying alive just by the thought that everything was gonna be better once I moved. I remember how I thought that getting away from somewhere would mean letting all the bad stuff at that place. But it didn't, it just made me believe, made me hope once again, to just fuck me up better at the end. But, why did I ask to go to France if I knew moving wasn't gonna make it better? Maybe I don't have all the memories, maybe it was my only chance but I still wonder. Why did I think moving would make me feel better? How did I think the disease worked? Why did I think everything would just become perfect?