The death of the right to dream

Can I be whatever I want? Can I?

By now, I wanna be a writer. I know, doesn’t feel like the most original dream around but hey, at least I’m dreaming about something. Not an easy task for a depressive person.

If you wanna die every single day of your life there’s no point in having an eschedule. I didn’t have to look at classical movies because there’s no tomorrow to impress nobody. I don’t take pictures; I try to left as little of me as is possible.

Now that I’m on heavy drugs that put away the desire of death, I feel like I have to somehow make up for the last 20 sad years of my life, I don’t know how, I overwhelmed.

Well, the thing is, right now I wanna to write a book about my depression cause I need to things make sense and I feel like I need to explain myself to the world so others can know

It’s a cruel play of destiny having two thirds of your life with absolutely no-ambition at all until one day the meds kick and somehow start to live thinking there’s maybe a future, that make plans is not bad, that an agenda is not a pandora box of stress, and well, is weird, because you’ll have to learn.

I remember when I had dreams. I wanted to be an escholar dedicated to cultural studies but I drop the university in the second year. I wanted to have my own place, my own books and my own cat. All that seems as far away as winning the lottery.

I had a lot of dreams that my depression just killed.

I feel bad about this and so lost and so sad that I’m gonna stop here. Another day.