I’ve been losing the kind of calmness — this so remarkable characteristic of my bucolic personality — necessary to family relationships; tranquility has been pared down to the bone. It is odd for me to think Aof myself changed concerning home environment. My smiles now are only happy till the point they reach other people’s eyes. Distrusting eyes that do not believe my happiness anymore.
Teenagehood must have come to me a little late, the spoiled boy waited carefully not to happen when it should have. One (or two, or Earth’s population) suggest knowing what my problem is. No one will never know, though they keep inferring and doing some fishing inside the restricted area of the lake my mind is. I don’t exactly know what my problem is, but theirs is thinking they know me better than I do. And although my goals nowadays are even more uncertain than my problems are, I’m going towards it.
What I’m sure of, though, is that no matter I pretend to have orgasms or to feel pain — for this seems to be the only way out: pretending — it will never do me any good. And things that ail me go straight to the paper, with a stopover in the heart, but never staying, never stopping.