My legs walk slowly, my feet draw an imperfect line before they hit the concrete, insecure, as I've been trying to change the way I walk to something more stylish, but I don't even know if I created it or if it's genuine, I was once told the impact is big when I walk fast. I hear every step but I stopped asking where I was going. It was useless, I wouldn't find an answer.

The funny thing about me is that I found happiness when I first got hurt. All the pain I felt until then wasn't pain, it was an illusion of pain, disguised lessons. It didn't hurt for years. It didn't left a hole in me, it didn't ache and break inside my chest, make me crawl in the floor and cry my eyes out. 

What was funny is that it was when I started feeling things deeply, and for real. Anything before that wasn't complete, and didn't blow me. I'm not sure what happy ever was, but happy isn't perfect, I guess happy is complete. And I was complete at the time. My soul was full.

These heavy memories that were once my reality are now saved in some wardrobe inside my mind. Every time I think of them it's like a truck full of pearls hits my body, but especially my face. I wish I could see how my eyes look when I remember one of the million things that filled me. I wish I could measure how it hurts me that it is past, and my furture propably includes undeniable numbness. Pretending you're happy is really sad. It's not that you're not sad, you're happy in some parts of the day, you draft some true smiles, you don't feel like you want to run away and you can perfectly live. 

But you don't feel complete. You don't feel like you're so full of feelings you're gonna explode, so full or porpuse you could wake up everyday at five o'clock in the morning and be happily tired. 

I miss looking at them every morning. How did this happen, who could have guessed this would happen, what did I do to deserve this, I asked myself, as I watched them laugh, run and smile and I didn't need to wish I could freeze those moments because I knew they were going to happen the next day, and the next. 

And in that summer I fed my own crazy, and I can't really say I regret a thing. 

I'm almost at the gate, I think as I finish my morning walk to school. I have little motivations for the day and some funny pictures on my phone that I need to show to this and that person, and some things I have to tell them about. But my insides are solid, like rocks, my feelings are the concrete, and my memories, my longings, my holes, are trucks.