A regret from time
<br>I've been finishing the tasks I've meant and have not done. Even simple small things. Finishing shows
<br>Finishing songs, shows, games.
<br>It is not for a self mutilatiory or masochist reason. I believe.
<br>It comes from the incesant feeling of... worth, function. To feel like I have not wasted any chance.
<br>More than I have had. And that has left me wondering wether I was actually going to finish them. Or I am just lying to myself. Or in the most positive theory. I have now become a one that will do that.
<br>I want to believe I have truly changed.
<br>But her words signified distrust. How could she not distrust me. For months, and for history, to betray my desires.
<br>I want to fulfil promises for a person that does not love me anymore.
<br>But do I do them because I have fear and hope in me?
<br>Or do I do it because I have become the dream man?
<br>I guess she is right, as much as it pained me. As much as it hurt.
<br>The truth is not as painful as the ondulated switchblade she stroke on me while confessing her true (lack of) feelings.
<br>But maybe I was never going to be the dream man. There were moments of tiredness. Moments of apathy. Even removing the Anhedonia from me. There still was an undeniable abuse of my confort.
<br>Whenever I got to be at the top, nothing would have pushed me to be better. Of course, unconditional love would require no effort to be better.
<br>But have I bettered because I have lost the love that kept me confortable? Or have I bettered because I desire to be the dream man? If true change is real.
<br>The dream is attentive, romantic, perfect, embossed into the charms and glitter of all the funny things we used to talk about.
<br>The dream man was something I sometimes felt I was, and was proud to be as. But it was never automatic, it was always the calculated and conscious acting.
<br>Maybe few of us men can be born like a dream man.
<br>And the rest of us learn to pretend.
<br>Why am I still pretending, if the curtains have closed?
<br>The audience has forgotten your finalised act.
<br>I can't say I am pure of my intentions since every small thing still reminds me of her. Even the inaction, like checking the phone because you usually see the notification at that hour.
<br>Or seeing the things built and shared decorating your room. Since she has no affection or hope for reunion, she might be the best candidate to decide the fate of those dearly precious objects.
<br>Point is... I am not clean of her. She still invades me, and therefore, hope and longing do. My wounds are grievous. Unwilling to heal.
<br>To promess you that change is real is to lie. Because I'm sure that deep down I would stillf fall in my knees to get back to her.
<br>And I regret not being the dream man.
<br>I regret being like the rest of undesired, transitory names to list of memories.
<br>I regret who I have been my whole life.
<br>And who I will be the rest of it.
<br>Therefore it is to me, to complete the transaction. And turn myself out.
<br>And to return the payment to the society that has had the misfortune of hosting me for far too much.
<br>In the true world, I must not be. Unexceptionally so.
<br>Farewell.