Living in Filth

I’ve always lived in filth; even without wanting to, even without liking it, enduring day after day a chaotic, dull, and senile world. Hoping with each sunrise that the next day would bring me more joy, more peace, and more health. Almost always my hopes were crushed by reality.

Filth that until then didn’t bother me. It started to bother me.

I take off my glasses to distract myself in my myopia. In the lack of focus I lose myself in scattered thoughts, daydreams, and a vague feeling of not being sure of anything, not even that I was ever right.

But the filth is still there…

There’s no way to sweep it with dignity under a rug. They were cruel to me, they didn’t give me rugs. Many people have rugs, they live well with them, what’s my problem? Throw a little dirt there, walk away smiling here and everything turns out fine.

Ah, the smoothness in the form of falseness, the fake smile that will become your everyday expression. I can’t… I just can’t! I care too much about trivial things, after all the house must always be clean, I’m a housewife obsessed with cleanliness, yeah.

But the filth is still there…

Notifying me of its presence through all my senses, reminding me of how flawed I am and how far I am from my goals. My conformism about the chaos of my apartment makes me reflect. My lack of ideas makes me succumb to myself.

I put my glasses back on, I go back to seeing the world as it is. More and more I start to resemble my floor. Day after day, a little speck of dust settles on my soul.

And I become depressed.