Marie,my girl,the love of my life.

....About how drugs were destroying my ability to love you and your ability to love me.

Sometimes one has to put aside the idea of the tenderness and sensitivity of his feelings, and remember that he is strong, and that these days, with their weight, their injustice, their misery, will pass now, or tomorrow, or after twenty years, and to believe that this life will give him something one day, something that may not last even for one day. But it will give and this pain will end, even for a few hours. When they ask you about the true war of the soul, tell them that the truest battle is your ability to make this heart pure, fit for human life after all those surprises, pitfalls, failures and defeats, the real battle is your war with your heart so that it remains white despite all those battles, the human features in you never change.

Those who remain silent rise a little from the ground, their feet and bodies no longer clinging to it. Those who remain silent withdraw from the crowd of the earth to celebrate themselves. It is as if the celebration of one's self can only take place in isolation. As if celebrating life is nothing but silence.

A question to you to question the thing you know I am talking about

I am depressed by the rhetoric that exist and does not include me, and from antagonisms even if they exclude me. I am depressed about the racism that does not target me. The discrimination that does not know me at all. I am depressed about the slanders, the settling of accounts in public even if I am completely bankrupt. I am depressed from the desire of others to slit the throats of others, yet I am not. I am depressed by the frenzy of scandal even if I am below the level of vision. I am depressed by the prisons that I have not entered, nor heard the sound of their doors, nor seen their darkness. From the indications of dreams that no one else saw and hid them even from interpretation for fear of realizing the possibilities. A strange fear overwhelms me without logical reasons. The horror of the one standing on the statistics of destruction in a city he does not know, but he is charged with listing the damage and announcing it and terrifying him that it has become wider than inventory and louder than the sound of any declaration. I am depressed by all these things that do not target me with their harm and consequences, but they target me with their meaning, their ease of occurrence, their ability to happen in the first place.

I imagine that the safe way to live in this world open to all these threats is to fortify within a square meter, deaf ears and close Eye blind about everything, and maybe destroying heart too.

I get depressed every time I feel myself to make sure that my heart has not become hardened, but it is becoming a wall. And that my tongue did not grow sharper, so it becomes a blade. And that my eyes did not acquaint themselves with the darkness of the world, it become blackhole. And that my ears were not hindered by the noise from hearing moans and aches. And depressed, depressed because I do not know how to be sure of the sincerity of my sense that I feel.
Because bad people and tyrants don't know what they are.

"...I do not know how to be sure of the sincerity of my sense that I feel....."