I’ve cried so many times in this bathroom we’re intimate friends

What do you want to do in your life?
The easiest answer is I don’t know, the truth is that I want to do so many things that they’re all the opposite of one another. It’s a contradictionary cluster and when I think of them all I feel overwhelmed and then I feel sad and nostalgic for none of them will ever come true.
I’m depressed and only the presence of my dog eases the sorrow I keep hiding inside.
I live in a constant state of waiting. I wait for the week end, I wait for my day off, I wait for the month to end, for one season to end, I wait for summer, for vacations, I wait for each work problem to be solved or to ruin my life, I wait for my loans to be over and then i wait for my online packages to arrive. Once the waiting has ended I desperately look for anything else to keep me believing life has a reason. In the waiting I’m idle, only afterwards I can be free.
What would I want to do? I wish I had a family already for the thought of finding love shallows me in an oppressing darkness, I wish I was married and had kids already, isn’t it the end game of one person’s life? I wish to renovate my house, I want to have a big library, I want to move to another country, I want see to nature around the world, I want to have my own business, I want to work for someone else, I want to study interior design, I want to attend a professional cooking course. Other times I just want to die

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Does one stop being happy when he stops trying? 

They try so hard to laugh and be happy, to seem happy. She tells him something funny and he replies something wicked. She smiles and bears his glance. This exchange of unrelevant sounds fills in the spaces and the time between them. Does it consolidate their union? Does it bring these two souls together? At the end of the night she goes back to her empty house. In the lobby of the building, she opens the front door of her apartment only to find a solid darkness. Is it the void she has  within? She reaches her bedroom and throws her keys and bag to a nearby armchair, she takes her clothes off leaving them on the floor as she walks to the bed. It’s dark. The light has yet to be turned on. Laying on the bed, she stares at the ceiling and lets the silence surround her. Not one sound comes from her, not one sound could reach her now. What are the images she lives in her head? What are the thoughts, the demons that consume her being? She feels exhausted but it’s not her body that needs rest.

I don’t like who I am when I’m with you. That’s just a facade of who you want me to be or think I am, a meaningless act I keep involuntarily to preserve your image of me, even if it’s one of the lowest opinion. I don’t like being restrained from being myself, even if it’s myself who cannot break these chains. It has been so long I cannot be anything else with you anymore. You have this idea of the person I am and you impose it on me negating my vain attempts to breath.