In the end,
I returned to an old feeling
that was over for a moment,
the first time I was in the room
but did not realize that I was too comfortable to leave it.

Neither so wide nor so narrow.
But I felt strange in my room,
even though it was an irony
to live with an old bookshelf
with a collection of books
that I had read through
and had read several times.

I'm still thinking about going back
to reading one of my favourite books at the top of the bookshelf, or better delay, or maybe go back to doing nothing.

And at a real age,
we should understand better,
which makes us more comfortable and happy, which worries us more about what we can't achieve, it's good that I should stay here.

I'm a stranger again and arrived among all the boisterous childhood hopes that are trying to be realized in a real future that we never know the end of, and those around who are observing, and even the closest people which we are not aware of its role.

I might prefer the past,
and maybe I'll still be there
waiting for a line to get its turn,
even at death,
or maybe I'll be like one with anxiety sufferers,
which they then say is crazy,
observed a dim lamp hanging in a room that was only large enough for one person,
fell and then broke apart,
then it was pitch black.

I admit
that a form of alienation is created when all is no longer here,
and even in the dark,
and then they realized
that life had known light so much.

But, just one breath.
We're over.