Piled-up pasts are overwhelming me. Nostalgic sights onto me from the future are filled with pasts. I’m convinced that I’ll be squashed by the scenes of glorious days. Nevertheless, which are unreal, raised up by fabrication of the pasts.
I used to be obsessed by such a feeling that I’ll be ruined by omissions of mine. I was able to recognize it definitely, however I, somehow, couldn’t deal with problems. I have to admit that I felt some pleasure toward the future in which I would be doomed.
Suddenly, I was into the fact that I faked up the feeling I had felt at the time. When I told to one that I was hurt by her, she said that it was me who hurt her. I hadn’t contacted her for long time. I came into the fact that I had been kept away from her.
This myself actually isn’t being, which ensures the eternity of myself. Accurately, the being is being just not as how you may think. This appears right here and just there. No future unveiled forward to me. It’s a sort of relief for me.