«Почти все время, каждый день внутри меня... пусто. Ничего не чувствую. Это так скучно. Я просыпаюсь и думаю: «Снова? Серьезно? Я снова должна это делать?». И я искренне не понимаю, почему другие не кричат от этой скуки? Почему? Я пытаюсь найти то, что заставит меня чувствовать. Но ничего не меняется. Чтобы я не делала, я ничего не чувствую. Я причиняю себе боль, но мне не больно. Я покупаю что хочу, но не хочу этого. Делаю что мне нравится, но мне не нравится. Мне так скучно.
Most of the time, most days, I feel nothing. I don't feel anything. It is so boring. I wake up and I think, again, really? I have to do this again? And what I really don't understand is how come everyone else isn't screaming with, with boredom, too, and I try to find ways to make myself feel something. More, and more, and more, but it doesn't make any difference. No matter what I do, I don't feel anything. I hurt myself; it doesn't hurt. I buy what I want; I don't want it. I do what I like; I don't like it. I'm just so bored.
Villanelle ©
Most of the time, most days, I feel nothing. I don't feel anything. It is so boring. I wake up and I think, again, really? I have to do this again? And what I really don't understand is how come everyone else isn't screaming with, with boredom, too, and I try to find ways to make myself feel something. More, and more, and more, but it doesn't make any difference. No matter what I do, I don't feel anything. I hurt myself; it doesn't hurt. I buy what I want; I don't want it. I do what I like; I don't like it. I'm just so bored.
Villanelle ©
23.11.2020 в 12:05
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