It is mental abuse to be loved.

And yes here is the tragedy of all: Once you were born, you are condemned to live on eternally. Not physically but in other ways you will never die. Even if your body fades away within the first few minutes of your life, and especially then you will stay around for a long time still. You will stand on the street corners, screaming: “forget me, please forget me, go on with life” to all the relatives, to the tomb stone guardian, to the plants and ants making millions of uses of your body but you will find no listeners. You will see colonies of bugs giving birth to colonies of bugs in your corpse. Even if you didn’t have any relatives and relationships and not even a name - your case will sit on the shelves of the local police department for ages. You would die twice and more times if necessary to avoid this, to avoid the importance of your death but you can’t, because the living are ignorant fucks.

Life just happens. You have become passive, not indifferent, but passive. You are floating in cold water, every day is the same, every street corner familiar. You try to take the feelings out of the things. Sometimes you are sad, sometimes happy, and it just happens to you, without much sense or consent. You are here, you don’t know what to do but that’s okay.

All that talk about finding something to love is long gone. You have found something, and loving it just meant getting used to it. They have told you that you must find your place here, they haven’t told you that this place would turn out boring and insignificant one day. Not only that everything in life is a big disappointment, life itself turns around to you in the guise of defeat. You have started skating again, and seeing that girl, but it is not the same. Right there and then, with your knees bleeding, you realize that delusions and false promises are essence of youth, and youth is diamonds.

I hate the happy places. Places like the clubs or the streets on friday nights, where you have to be happy in order to not be a loser. Where people hate you for being sad sometimes, and hurt you for still being angry at all the injustice you see nowadays. I hate the clubs, I hate them, I hate to be forced to be happy, I hate all the entertainment shows and amusement parks. There are the happy people, too. The people that are ‘friends’ with you, super duper fucking friends, and guess what, friend no. 1772? This fucking round goes on me, drink to numb what is left of you, and don’t you dare to say no, fuck, don’t you dare. This is the eternal battle between the lame fucking boring ones who are actually changing things, because they are not afraid to get up at five thirty in the morning and those who will be gone without a trace into the assembly halls of the rich and fat. But on friday night there is not much of a choice. On friday night, you have to be happy.

The stars are annoyed by your questions about the future.
They say: “We are just stars, Goddamnit!”