Siberian cactus

You're looking a blurry image, waiting for a train that does not pass, you feel like a cactus in Siberia, a soul out of his body, the truth that nobody believes.

You do not fit, you anesthesia, your strength is not extraordinary, barely move your eyes, you do not care of the present time, do not know the date, all roads will lead you to the same place.

Making no questions at all, you know quite little about what happens around, away from most things that are so many, because they are always there and repeating to yourself you will make it if you could.

The initiative made you a bad play and it's not your friend anymore, luck is a religion whose god is a foreigner to you, believed that these people talked to you and you do not understand them, standing in front of the TV waiting for the Prime Time.

You stay in a quietness intolerant tied to a mental cloudiness as dragged by two radicals crashing waves, harmonious chaos.

Auto marginalized, voluntary exiled throwing screams to a stationary satellite that does not rotate in any direction, swearing to change.

Sounds like a crime, self-rejected as a treaty of disadvantages sequenced a torment created, very artificial.

Now you realize that the sun would not go down to warm, the doors remain closed, social outcast, a root that has grown in opposite direction.

And every time fear assaults you smile by this load of ignorance you are carrying, that you can not do anything submerged in the swamp of a violent confusion.

And if they ever realized that do not laugh for joy but fear and that those smiles are ironically and sad as coming from a clown.

Limited by you so stoic, by giant steps that walk backward, there is a cup and aroma, no linen pillow, some flashing lights of the evening, calm very calm and you go back to immobility.

As your twisted silhouette backwards.