How many nights have I killed, rolling inside my bed sheets, trying to find myself...
Up to what unrecognizable point I lose myself, up to what point does my consciousness seem to dilute into waves that, as easy as they come, they retreat?
Who am I? That oh so easy question (I always thought it was so) was never a bother until someone placed it within my brain with infinite cruelty.
My memory is almost non-existant, or at least the idea of a logical, "correlative" one isn't: I seem to remember things that are the memories of another, stories whispered by other lips… stories with which I can mentally play and make my own.
But I quickly come to a returning point, that line that seems that, if trespassed, those tales would no longer be tales, becoming my only truth. Or have I done that already? Maybe my true memories are locked inside a box in the most recondite place of my soul, resigned to the idea of never being opened again. Or perhaps there never was anything, maybe there isn't a past, and maybe there isn't a future, maybe it's just me throwing myself everyday into endless oblivion, a fall I do not live, without time, without place, without company, without memories: who am I?
Has madness finally reached me? Or is it just something that sounds romantic, and therefore I decide to believe it, finally becoming that dramatic character I have always wished to be? Who am I? And who are you, that voice that sometimes seems to speak to me without a sound, that voice to whom I write, up to the point that, sometimes, I wait for even a sigh of an answer?
Speak to me, answer me, tell me: yes, you have gone mad, and become at least my company, don't ignore me anymore, I am begging you. If you are indeed my other half, come and join me once and for all, don't let me wander this nothingness on my own, lost inside this body that I can't stand and this mind that disgusts me. If I shall pour my consciousness through each and every one of my wounds, so be it, for its desperate intent to escape hurts me...
