10/25 Théologie humaine.

Speaking about it won’t help.
As well as not doing. I thought I was off with this communication issue.
I don’t know if I prefer expressing myself in a language I cannot own, I cannot play with, I cannot fully enjoy the perfume, or in a language I own and owe to speak with.

Obviously I prefer the first, maybe putting hurdles through my way is a way not to forget how to jump. I do prefer not being understood. This communication-hell again.

I’m getting to understand many things about myself every day. Gladly.
This is maybe the sweet thing about getting older. I understood why every time I get hurt, every time shit happens to be, every time I see my blood, my bones, every time It cracked, broke, got torn, writhed I felt excited, happy, relieved. Because of the mere reason that proved me I was existing.

Still today every choice I make makes me realize I’m still not away with it. I’m always running away, I always leave, people, places, families, even languages. “I used to” is not even something I say, I’d rather use “I did”.
 The only thing I can drive is motorbikes, as once more It allows me being perfectly alone.
I don’t like team sports, I can’t play it at all, the only thing I’m good at is combative sports. Someone in front of you, someone you can blame for everything without saying anything. I like boxing. But I’d prefer never being asked why.

The problem is, when I say "I think I’m not alive" it doesn't means to me "I think I’m already dead".

I believe I’m not alive with the meaning "I think I never existed."

Trusting that everything around is unreal, just imagination, a strangely lame and precarious fancy of my own. It never stopped. Maybe I can make do with this forever. Who knows. The most obvious thing about life, the life itself, is the hardest thing for me to trust in.

I’m wearing a blue skirt with flowers, flowers with petals going from light to dark blue. This along with a white shirt. I’m 8 springs old and it's spring again. I'm somewhere sitting set back in the school’s playground. Aloneasalways.

(Screw it today I have so many friend-Who think I’m normal-good cover you stupid)

Then I stand up, I’m so fed up of pretending, I run to that beautiful tree the school was so proud of, a beautiful weeping willow. And there I begin tearing it down like crazy, screaming “this is not real-this is not real-nothing is real” something alike. Them, teachers, students, classmates, they’re all here, holding me tight, trying to stop me. I keep on tearing /it apart. I keep on hurting this tree the best I can, I keep on beating this standing still piece of life, as I was myself a wiggling piece of death.
The non-moving existence facing the moving non-existence.

This is why maybe I’ve decided not to speak after, maybe to get this silent life the weeping tree had.

No wonder my bike was my only friend back then.

That day it took me more than 5 hours to get back to what normal people call a “normal” state.

I never knew how this has been explained to my parents, hitting teachers, school mates and attacking that so-called school’s natural trophy. But I knew back then my parents didn’t believe in medication. 
Luckily. 
They surely didn’t believe in being abnormal neither.
Sadly.

Anyway, I got away with it once more.

Which helped me to persist thinking this all was untrue, 
people get problems when they do mistakes, I got away with it. As I still always do. This is so Fake. Come on.