I hate weekends

Every Sunday my “so called friends” are busy doing I–don’t-fucking-care-what and I find myself sitting in my favorite cafeteria for hours reading, writing in my journal and smoking tones of cigarettes. And I start to hate them for leaving me to be on my own in the company of my sick mind only. When I am alone everything gets twisted, white becomes black, black becomes a hole that consumes me and can’t find my way out. Sometimes I think I am a good listener for no other reason but because I prefer to give all my attention to someone else’s problems so that I would forget about mine.

On Friday I spent quite a time reading a certain blog by a person whose mind suffers the same disease as mine – he feels out of place all the time and he doesn’t understand why. He thinks he’s depressed and I’m sure he has his reasons to believe he is but…he is only 23…he doesn’t know what it feels like to be 33 and still to be asking those questions and there to be no hope left they will ever get answered.

My wish of the day : to belong.

“Every day is exactly the same”