Ridiculous thoughts

I'm tired. I'm tired of being friend, of trying to be special for people who don't know how to value my gestures. Of being present for who is often absent. Of feeling guilty for doubting someone's friendship while this one was by my side when I really needed but... I don't know, I need much more than advices for hard times and that's it.

Don't misread me. I'm not in love, I don't want to be in love; this isn't the question, neither the solution. This text isn't for someone in special, but for some people, plural of person. I need presence, I need less words and good intentions and more gestures and attitudes.

Yes, I moved away. Invisibility doesn't please me. I was there, I was always there. It isn't healthy begging for attention and caring with someone who doesn't care, who treats me as a convenience because one day he might need me or then, he feels in debt about me because I was his friend in a moment a friend was all he needed. I'm tired of thinking of good metaphors, beauty euphemisms, nobody reads my blog anyway unless I force them to do it.

And well, would it work if I vomit and tell the truth of what's bothering me? People don't want to help or they can't, I already know the cliches. And even if they wanted to, they couldn't help, all they could do would be feeling embarrassed and feel ashamed of me and it doesn't help. It's disappointing!

This isn't a teenager disillusion, my body possessed by an emo spirit or a night crisis of foreveralonism. Or perhaps some mental problem, depression or misanthropy. Perhaps the problem isn't me but the group of blind people around me that I used to care about, to concern of, to listen to and to try to help. The human being is naturally selfish, he always want to be rewarded for something good he did even though his superego or the society moral rules say this is wrong. The human being is an animal trying to domesticate himself and getting rid of this nature. Well, I'm speaking for myself.

Anyway, perhaps I really shouldn't spend my time writing a text to play this role of seeming ridiculous or mentally disturbed, but I don't have the gift of pretending I'm not seeing, not feeling, suppressing me; not for so long. I guess I have no more patience to make the blinds to see what is right in front of their nose. I neither should take myself the trouble of writing a text with hints for a better understanding of the human psychology. I'm not talking about Freud: I'm talking about common sense, sensibility and lack of tact that people seems to have lost somewhere.

THE CRANBERRIES – Ridiculous Thoughts