Like a coton ball flying above a lake

Sometimes I feel like my whole soul is but a hole with nothing around, not a single thing circling it.

Sometimes I wish I'd be a souvenir, fading in the air, an envelopping fog all along the road ; but despite my sadness, I'm unfortunately nothing but a hope, scattered in a million pieces on the dirty floor, trying to reassemble them little by little, one by one, year after year.

I'd like to be a coton ball flying above a lake, not mesmerized by the peacefully quiet scenery, neither afraid of drowning in the depth. No fear nor hope, nothing.

Why am I doing this to myself ? Why do I care too much about this hope, so tiny and fragile ? Because, as I like to think, I'm not doing it for myself - not only - but for Humankind ; or should I say for Humankind's little innocence it seems to have.

How pretentious, isn't it ? But be relieved, my presence is a moral poison that would harm the purest - or at least that's what some people tend/ed to think. Why would they be in error ?

Either hopeful and hopeless, I walk and try to see some beauty, some innocence, some kindness, in this world that seems so cruel.

Something is burning in my heart turned cold. Khalil Gibran wrote "Hell lies in an only heart." What if I don't feel my heart anymore ?

As life goes by without me, I know less and less why do I have to carry this burden full of emptiness.

Every night, I dream, wish, imagine an other me. A happy Sofia, smiling to the Sun, smelling a rose losing her petals. This life's scent is as bewitching as it is rotten in this one.

Maybe you're wondering why I tell you this. How shall I put it... You're one of the only sincere and kind person. In a way you're the innocence that I look for in everyone, only to be systematically bitterly disappointed. Of course there are other friends... But... sometimes a little voice whispers in my ear: "until when ?"

All is but a change, or a stagnation. Change of heart or of mood, stagnation of hatred and sadness. You'll admit with me that, in a way, it could be worse. After all, love's contrary isn't hatred but apathy, don't you think so ? At least, when you hate, you feel...

But I don't hate anymore, so I don't feel anything. Anything but disgust. Disgust for me, for people, for life. Why do people love or enjoy life ? I can't understand. I never could.

Friends can be terrible traitors, love is often filthy, parents are usually blind, ourselves are hoping for a change that will never come since it never came, and last but not least life is pointless. Life is pointless, noting to stop our misfortunes or our hopes to vanish.

Although you may not believe it, it makes me feel better to share all of this with you. Maybe because I'm nearly certain you won't make fun of me, or think I'm "just" depressed as some people told me in an indelicate manner, or that I'm a "poor little victim" - as other people told me.

People... When you don't open your heart to them, you're a bitch for keeping your secrets and not trusting them. When you share your tears with them, it surprisingly transforms you into a whiny bitch. All in all you lose.

Worse of all is that I am acting whiny. After all, I have a family, a home, I'm studying and can afford to go on vacation. Then what am I complaining about ? Someone somewhere would die to have my so called problems.

What are feelings ? I have all the material comfort I want. What's the point of searching for futile evaporating spiritual sensitiviness ?

There is not one. And that's what is called hope : acting repetitively to obtain nothing, only to wish that someday, maybe, there will be a chance, that...

That what ? People change ? I change ? Life changes ? I don't know, neither if that's possible nor if it's really what I want or not.

But I'm aware of the fact that I'm not doing any better than life, since I'm repeating myself - which is pretty boring.

Other than disgusted, I feel guilty, maybe because I am. I nearly always felt that way, as long as I remember. I couldn't explain it, but by chance, I found an explanation in Dostoïevski's book I was reading. In it, a monk says "We're guilty for everything in front of everyone." Guilty of being happy when so many people are sad, guilty of being sad when some people feel even worse, guilty of not feeling guilty enough just to live happier... Guilty guilty guilty... It sounds like a sentence. But can we object anything ? The only solution would be prayors.

Thus, our obligation to live will be punctuated with penitence.

This long letter to finally understand what I want : a smile.

I am not alone, my dear friend, but I feel lonely.