Once again I write. Not sure about the date, not sure about my mind, about what I have to say, whom I am saying it for, why I suddenly write in English.
I listen to music, music that reminds of things I said I wasn't going to think about. Who am I trying to kid? I can't just let go. I close my eyes and picture myself in a different situation, with someone. I always need to have someone to fantasize about. Instead of living life, I hide in my illusions. I think I regret breaking up with Dario. I regret staying only one semester in Canada. I regret staying at home under a blanket. I regret spending all my money in things I don't need. I regret eating chocolate and ice-cream all the time to try and cheer up.
I want to write about something real. Be sincere for once. But there is nothing real or sincere about me. There is nothing about me at all.
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