The only reason I won’t say I wish I could be like you, or you, or you, or you, or you, or you is that it feels like blasphemy.
I cowardly admire you from the distance, knowing you probably will never waste a second of your life with someone like me, but, if we somehow crossed paths, you’d surely and effortlessly destroy me, making justice with the same ease and dignity you crush a bug with.
What is left to do once I’ve slowly, comfortably, numbly sunk so low, besides dying a horrible death that in no way will be enough to make up for so many obscenely wasted years of indulgence? I’ll never know what it is like to be strong or brave. I’ll never know what it is like to be a person worthy of living, never mind being remembered.
You don’t need to listen, much less to reason with me. When my comeuppance catches up with me, I’ll be gone without ever having understood what I should have done, or what I could. You don’t seem to believe this is possible. I wish I could have learned from someone like you, when I was still in time.
I’m also sure this is what lots of worthless people think and feel when their time comes. The last thing I am is special.
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The red lake has been forgotten. A dust devil stuns you long enough to shroud forever those last shards of wisdom. The breeze rocking this forlorn wasteland whispers in your ears, “Não resta mais que uma sombra”.