This is an end (versión en prosa)

Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, what am I waiting for? The possibility of change or the tranquility that will end everything.

Today I woke up feeling underwater. The blueness of everything shocked me. The dreams and hopes of yesterday are now just a city of ghosts, complementing the fragility that lives inside me.

I’m trying to accept that, after all, I’m the one who will be responsible for each step that I take in the wrong direction. I’ll be the only one, looking at myself, trying to understand why I made a left turn. I will be the person sitting in the corner, crying as the silence floods my bedroom.

And when it’s full, I will see myself from above. I will see the little, disorganized, ugly, fat thing that is crying in the corner. And I will feel pity for myself, and I’ll try to understand what I am waiting for.

And I’m waiting, while I watch myself from above, for that moment when a sound will break the loud silence that is flooding my room. I will adjust my hearing, trying to understand what’s under the sobbing, what that ugly thing is trying to say.

And suddenly, I hear it. ‘I miss him. I need him.’ And suddenly, I’m angry.

Everything starts to spin; I cannot comprehend what is real. My vision becomes blurry, I don’t feel my skin touching my clothes, I cannot taste my mouth, and I cannot smell my smell.

And then I hate myself. I hate the version of me that, once again, let others decide how I should feel. I hate the version of myself that granted others the power to write my path, to change my rules, to shift my world. For what? For the ideation or the possibility of feeling him near me, of feeling his warmth embracing me, of tasting his mouth, of smelling his smell.

And I just hate it.

And I just hate me.

And today I say goodbye. Goodbye to him, goodbye to the idea. Goodbye to the little, disorganized, ugly, fat thing that is crying in the corner.

This is an end.