These were relatively cold and gloomy days.
Gray and rainy, sad days, and I settled in the atmosphere full of my worries. I do not feel comfortable talking about what I was doing or what I was expecting. Because every day was precisely the same. Always the same. I went down the empty streets of my life to buy some things, in a matter of a few minutes I came back. Everything was monotonous and still the same. I do not feel comfortable writing about what I was doing, or what I was expecting, but for now it's enough for you to know what I am. The days here are always rainy, the sun never shines, and I am always waiting for something. Something or someone that never comes. But I do not want them to think that my days are sad, because they are not. In fact, I did not even know what sadness was until recently. Curious to know what it was, I bought it for free. And they delivered to me at home in a matter of days.
I was relatively disappointed, it was something small, I thought it was much bigger. So, the disgrace was inserted in a gentle letter, sent from a distant planet. Suddenly, I’ve noticed they had pointed out the eternal skies that were the real ambivalence of my heart. They gave me the wrong life to live? Suddenly, I was a miniature of myself. Suddenly, reality wasn’t capable of making any sense. That's all of a sudden. I do not own the ones who know everything that I love. Another interesting thing about the intricate universe that I am marvelously compelled to describe is the brave solicitude that seeks in my soul the despondency for a voluntary personification of reason.
Gray and rainy, sad days, and I settled in the atmosphere full of my worries. I do not feel comfortable talking about what I was doing or what I was expecting. Because every day was precisely the same. Always the same. I went down the empty streets of my life to buy some things, in a matter of a few minutes I came back. Everything was monotonous and still the same. I do not feel comfortable writing about what I was doing, or what I was expecting, but for now it's enough for you to know what I am. The days here are always rainy, the sun never shines, and I am always waiting for something. Something or someone that never comes. But I do not want them to think that my days are sad, because they are not. In fact, I did not even know what sadness was until recently. Curious to know what it was, I bought it for free. And they delivered to me at home in a matter of days.
I was relatively disappointed, it was something small, I thought it was much bigger. So, the disgrace was inserted in a gentle letter, sent from a distant planet. Suddenly, I’ve noticed they had pointed out the eternal skies that were the real ambivalence of my heart. They gave me the wrong life to live? Suddenly, I was a miniature of myself. Suddenly, reality wasn’t capable of making any sense. That's all of a sudden. I do not own the ones who know everything that I love. Another interesting thing about the intricate universe that I am marvelously compelled to describe is the brave solicitude that seeks in my soul the despondency for a voluntary personification of reason.
I left the omniscient sickness of my personal dark days at the bottom of my reflex. Since the shadows of my voluntary analysis had no practical functionality or purpose, I left all those useless days behind my sentimental stream of memory. Nevertheless, I can positively say that my days were not sad, I did not even knew sadness until I saw the shadows of my imponderable thoughts. Outside, the rain never stopped, and the sky was always dark. In the night a dense fog took refuge in the most intense chasms of dawn, and I woke up apprehensively, wanting to check upon everybody, until I remembered that I lived only with the sinister ambivalence of strikingly forgotten shadows. Then I would get up to take a breath, and watch the dense and gray perpetual mist that every morning returned to the window, involving my world in a timeless black labyrinth that whispered the eternal night into my life. I stood there, paralyzed by the free hostilities of the night, alone, but relying in the strength of my principles, albeit feeling vulnerable and frail, reiterating the nocturnal sickness of my private world, thinking and reflecting, but never with a plausible capacity for concentration, or focus, or rational objectivity.
I felt like an afflictive nighttime specter, a man lost in the dark expansion of his own night. But this always happened, it was common, after having those sinister impressions on the mists of night. So I went back to sleep, and when I woke up all things were exactly as before. Everything was monotonous, tragic and abysmal, and when I woke up, it was just me alone, as always. The days went on endlessly, filled with lethargy, and the monotonous quietness of the weeks guarded the effervescence of my latent anxieties and impulsive disturbances.
Well, I have to conform, I think. If this is how life works for me, if this is the functionality that governs my life, if the gears of my existence stand in this way, who am I to disagree? I justified myself this way. And so the days passed by, in the forgotten emptiness of a cold day monotony. These days were all and the same. Always greyish and anxious, followed by virulent and distressing nights, always accompanied by a dense and deleterious fog that seems predisposed to capture me every night, but mysteriously, never takes me.
Wagner
I felt like an afflictive nighttime specter, a man lost in the dark expansion of his own night. But this always happened, it was common, after having those sinister impressions on the mists of night. So I went back to sleep, and when I woke up all things were exactly as before. Everything was monotonous, tragic and abysmal, and when I woke up, it was just me alone, as always. The days went on endlessly, filled with lethargy, and the monotonous quietness of the weeks guarded the effervescence of my latent anxieties and impulsive disturbances.
Well, I have to conform, I think. If this is how life works for me, if this is the functionality that governs my life, if the gears of my existence stand in this way, who am I to disagree? I justified myself this way. And so the days passed by, in the forgotten emptiness of a cold day monotony. These days were all and the same. Always greyish and anxious, followed by virulent and distressing nights, always accompanied by a dense and deleterious fog that seems predisposed to capture me every night, but mysteriously, never takes me.
Wagner
