"buy records, read biographies of musicians, collects handbills. Music flowing through his veins. And sometimes even love the music the musicians themselves. But instead of touching cry." The music lover. Eusebio Ruvalcaba.
Sometimes I feel Salieri. It's like my life was in a dream. See and be seen with painful clarity as he ascends the talent of others. Mediocrity and envy, the poison that paralyzes me. A fear that prevents me from doing things. Wasted potential, a mere idea of \u200b\u200bwhat might be good but not enough.
There are days when I can hardly exist. My brain has a way strange and I work hard to separate past, present and future. Stifling days in which so many things going through my mind that I can hardly keep up. As smoke marijuana without the tranquility and passivity that characterizes it. Days when I feel that it is all quick camera when in fact remain motionless for hours, watching the computer screen.
I feel terribly old, I can not understand why I feel this terrible need to have all my stories, preserve them, as if everything is too ephemeral, as if death or forgetfulness Cirne on me. This is my hell Kafkaesque.
difficult to live with the obsession compulsion constant anxiety and fear unjustified. I'm an insecure narcissist, a egolatra with an inferiority complex. A contradiccón, a denial of my own, an inconsistency of person. I would erect a monument and then throw eggs.
I eat only memories and dreams, allowing the flow fact about me because it is unbearable failure. Living in excess and self-censorship. I am a prisoner of my psyche. I'm caught between madness and health, standing on the line that keeps me define myself.
I want to be a writer, but I'm afraid to write. I'm afraid to face the blank page. Only when I can not allow these escapes me most culpable, this explosion of doom liberating.
My life is chaotic, both my room and my thoughts and my school work (which I did). Despite that I describe myself as a perfectionist and fanatical of the order. The inability to classify all frustrates me so much that paralyzes me. I am overwhelmed by the prospect.
I firmly believe that I have no imagination or creativity. Everything is limited to (mis) memorize things. I'm just a collage of the world. The extreme fetish, collector. Pathological hoarding. Choose
is almost impossible, I want everything, I can not let go, I can not stop thinking about that. Frees me to write here and at the same time incredibly scared me. I feel much pressure, not only with you I read but me. I am my most harsh critic.
terrifies me Feeling scattered, losing things (physical or otherwise) makes me physically ill. I feel like I disappear. I am my things and my things are me. Lose the thread of my life. I can not concentrate.
express what I think, feel or live many times, save in the collective memory of who I want, where they translate it remains for future reference. I record everything, because we forget an important date, a gesture, a thing is a nightmare for me. I have to know there is a backup of my memory, just so I'm (semi) quiet.
There is so much I want to say, so I want to communicate while I'm dry. I can not create nothing on my own and that depresses me, I completely collapses.
Then read this, do not know how I will feel. I have many books of my childhood and adolescence in which I describe exactly the same feeling. The feeling that I am two people, that go from one extreme to another, that does not recognize who I am among many voices.
I hope to write more clearly in a while. I hope you understand my fragmented ideas and understand the intent behind it. I have many things in his head, much to tell, but I can not put an order.
May my words serve at least to keep company with those who feel the same, drifting, with a fire burning in their breasts.
Teenage Angst by Placebo
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