I've built my own prison. A prison of guilt, a prison of bad habits, a prison of lies.

The walls are starting to crumble, and I've frozen in place.

I let the days go to waste, filling the time with meaninglessness.

I'm afraid because things have happened, so far. I didn't make them happen. I've reacted to people, events, changes. I made nothing happen.

I want to become the director of this story - but I don't know how.

I've resumed a light form of exercise, laid off the mountains of sugar, put the bottles away. Not enough. I want to stop smoking, but I go back and forth. What do I have left, I reason, if I can't even light up my cigs? What's the point?

The point... the presence  - and lack - of a point is a new mystery I can't solve.

It started when it became clear that my love of chatting wasn't exactly productive. It was exposed, unsurprisingly, as yet another form of escape. I made the connection but still, I'm ashamed.

So now, words get stuck before they come out. When I try to open up, tears fill my eyes and I don't know why.

I fantasize, all the time. I imagine a different reality - a reality in which I have a job that keeps me busy, challenged, secure. A reality in which I don't have the obligations I do now, where the pressure has been lifted off my back, I'm free to explore the next phase of adulthood.

I don't know how to get there, and I'm stuck.

Since I'm stuck, I go back to memories. I live long hours in the past. I pray that it come back, and the people I've lost, with it. I don't know if I'd do things differently. I used to think I would but now, I don't know.

I had reached the conclusion that some questions are best left open, without an answer. That life was meant to be lived step by step, savoring the moment, making the best of what happens, every day.

Now, that sounds just impractical. I'm sick of crawling in the dark. I don't have a vision, I don't have a goal, I don't have reasons - what's the point?

I wish I could look into other people's lives to get a clue, a hint. Yet, my pointless love of chatting has exposed to me the darkness in those people. Verdict? Nobody knows why. They live step by step, try to savor the moment, making the best of what happens, every day.

Last year I was in love, and it was easy. I felt alive, excited, colors were bright and the streets looked pretty. Even if circumstances sucked already, and they sucked bad. I refused to address that, reasoning, well, you'll worry about this when the party is over.

The party was over while I was still drunk and I still didn't recover from the hangover.

Now I'm forcing myself out of the rut, but it feels too forced.

What would I do, if I were free to do what I wanted? I don't know that, either.

I don't know anything, anymore.

Thank you for waking me up.

Thank you for reminding me that if it's too good to be true... it probably is.

Thank you for wasting time, heart and mind on you. Worst deal I ever made.

Thank you for making it easy to hate you, rather than keep wondering what if.

I thought you had brought some good into my life, but now I'm empty.

I'm bitter, cynical, angry. More than I was, before I met you.

That distant November night.

I had been wondering if I had dreamed all of that crazy month I've spent with you.

Turns out, I didn't, and I did.

I didn't, because it happened. We spent those nights together, we shared some of our troubles, some of our hopes, some of our dreams. I held your hand, and you held mine. We hugged, we cuddled, we made painful, psychotic, wounded love.

I did, because I filtered your character through some thick, distorting lenses. I filled a dark reality with some vivid colors that weren't there. I believed in your words, more than you did yourself. How often did you lie? To what extent? To what end?

I don't wonder anymore. I may never wonder again, or that's how I feel.

I certainly won't guess about you, anymore. I have my answers. I hate having come to my senses but, once you see the light, you can't unsee it anymore.

I'll just pray to the Universe, asking to be freed of the memories of you.

It always starts the same.

One is naive, full of wonder, curious to explore the beauty in the world. The other is wounded, full of disenchantment, terrified to step outside his walls, again.

They meet, they chat, they smile. Time seems to stop and a spark has come alive.

One wonders if this is it, if she's found her home. The other feels helpless, smells the threat on its way back.

It's not the time to part just yet. They'll wander into each other's souls, searching for their own missing pieces. They'll make love, and they'll share their demons.

Time will then resume, merciless, deaf to the prayers of the characters of the story.

By now, the damage is done.

One will see the castle of her imagination crumble, swept away, revealed in its evanescence. The other will run back to his walls, silently shut the door, weeping at yet another failure, yet another broken heart.