I don't write when I'm happy, I only write when things seem fake. I can't shake this feeling of crazy, so I take drugs to tell myself a lie for a couple of hours. Today I found out about the truth; I found out about the death of the indigenous people. I was always told about the benevolence of my ancestors. If these are the lies we tell ourselves in order to alleviate our guilt, why must we stop it there? I tell myself I'm good just to continue forward. My face is berated with the tone of my voice, and the reason is because I cannot be good. I find myself returning to the same clown of evil, with the same level of narcissism. I always see those around me in this state, so I must also be in it. I tell myself about the love others have given me, and a minute exercise of optimism appears. It is also a lie. As I sit in silence, the same state of disgust and anguish builds up around me, forcing me to look at the wrinkles in my face, and the invisible tears in m
I write short stories and poetry sometimes. I deconstruct writing standards.