I have an interview next week, but my mind is pretty occupied. Words, blasphemous words, questions, reasons, justifications, made up stories, excuses… a nonstop roller coaster cart with the wheels about to bleed. All I have is faith to hold me, I think…

I believe.

I had a marvelous chat with a friend tonight. I had missed the old me. The old I don’t give a fuck me who just roamed free, prioritized, set goals when he had to, and laughed at everything no matter what.

I still remember the day it ended permanently. I remember the smile I gave; more of a sneer. I smiled because it reminded me of that feeling when I wake myself up from a good ol’ dream where everything seems possible. Every dream I’ve ever had, I always mentally pinch myself out of it when it feels too good to be true… and the moment I wake up, I smile. I told you I wasn’t easy, yelled the impenetrable adversary. I just forgot that I have to realize that it’s always going to be like that…

I have so underestimated dreams. They may not be pointless after all.

If you start looking for an exit door you’ll always find it. The fact of the matter is that there’s a huge difference between looking for the door and bumping into it. If you want to find reasons for things not to work, for flaws in a person, all you gotta do is have the intention to… You wouldn’t even need to look closely… and then it’ll be all over.

I need my peace, with myself, with God… with the world as it is.

All I need is time… time in a virtual room that I’ve built for me to wait. Four empty grey corporate walls with nothing but a round white clock hanging and chair for me to sit on and stare at the time passing by ever so slowly. Deep down… I know that time does not heal wounds though. There’s always going to be that scar; it just won’t bleed anymore.

It feels like I’ve been sitting on that chair forever, waiting… for a knock on my door, but as I got up and opened that door there was no one there. I’ll just never know whether it’s because I was too late or if that knock was my mind playing tricks on me, part of my hallucination, a made up fairy tale. Was it the too good to be true syndrome?, I asked myself, but alas, there was no one there to answer but the clock… ticking, taking mental notes of my drying tears, and marking my wrinkling nerves; counting the pulses I have left in me.

But then again… I’ve gotten used to the room. I’ve made friends with the walls and made love to the steady beat evolving out of the clock.

It’s all I need right now… there’s nothing else I can count on. Faith might be over rated after all.

Only that clock will tell.