Lost in Immaturity

It's like the devil is running my life. I don't lack the money I need, but what I earn I take nothing. The love I wanted I never had, just the love of addiction to the unreal. The maturity of interacting with others is no longer lacking, but the love for them diminishes with each moment that it becomes easier to speak. Of friendships… of that one real friendship, I have nothing else. Time takes everything, even those who don't deserve it after such anguish. And for me, I list the defects below:

I am unable to be sure whether what was done was necessary or useful.

Trapped in the world for being unable to buy his own resting place.

Carried away by others' words of encouragement and the false benefits of what is sold to me.

Deceived, weak, addicted, spiteful and consumed with hate along with anger at his own inability to outdo everyone around me.

Troublesome, for thinking that way and not like the rest of the world. Or who knows, maybe I'm just someone immature and egoist, unable to accept that the world doesn't need me, and that I have nothing left.

Finally, there is only poetry left, for a fragmented soul that does not accept death as an option.

What about now, José?

What about now, José?

The party is over,

the light is off,

the people are gone,

the night has gone cold,

what about now, José?

what about now, you?

you, who are nameless

you, who mocks others,

you, who writes verses,

who loves, protests?

what about now, José?

You have no wife,

Have no love,

no speech,

can no longer drink,

can no longer smoke,

spit no longer,

night has gone cold,

dawn hasn't come

tram hasn't come,

laughter hasn't come,

utopia has come not

and everything's over

everything fleed,

everything wilted,

what about now, José?

Your sweet word,

your moment of fever,

your glutony and fast,

your library,

your gold plating,

your glass suit,

your contradiction,

your hatred - what about now?

Having the key in your hands,

want to open the door,

there is no door;

want to drown in the sea,

but the sea has dried;

want to go to Minas1,

Minas there is no longer.

José, what about now?

If you screamed,

if you moaned,

if you played

Viena's waltz,

if you slept,

if you got tired,

if you died,

But you don't die,

you are tough, José!

Alone in the dark,

as a wild animal,

without theogony,

without naked wall

to lie on,

without dark horse,

may it runaway,

You march, José!

José, where to?

Carlos Drummond de Andrade.

Author Notes: Firstly, if you read until now congrats, you're though, it's kind of a bad history in my opinion. If you're uncomfortable with it sorry again, but it's the result of a hard time.

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