Perhaps living was never meant for me.
Either I was born different, or my environment shaped me this way.
Yes, life has beautiful and good moments, but it wasn't like that for me.
Even though I never suffered abuse or trauma, for some reason, my mind doesn't know what it means to be well.
Everyone congratulates me for being intelligent, saying they wish they could be me, but in truth, this is a curse.
I spend my nights sleepless; thoughts come and go, future, past, and present flash through my head in seconds.
I don't know why, but I love the night. It holds a beautiful duality, how the darkness of my thoughts blends with the brilliance of the moon and the stars—it is melancholically beautiful.
I like standing on the balcony and looking out at the city, a city that, though it sickens me daily, holds its charm.
I watch the crowd walk by, absorbed in their own problems and experiences.
The truth is, I'm very antisocial, but when I see people from afar, I get curious to know their story.
Time—we always believe we will have it. Until one day, it vanishes completely.
We live postponing things for tomorrow, without even knowing if we'll have it.
One day you're born, and in the blink of an eye, you are already an adolescent. Time passes quickly and doesn't align with me. Yet my mind goes beyond the present moment without ever experiencing it. This makes me regress to the past.
In my childhood, the only constant was solitude. The empty house, with an overwhelming silence. And I hated being alone, not because I felt the need to be with someone, but because the only one accompanying me was my own mind—that's where the negative things awakened.
But thanks to solitude, I also discovered curiosity.
I love learning constantly, about any kind of thing. My interests include economics, philosophy, psychology, medicine, history, art, and cinema.
I couldn't begin to explain the countless hours I must have spent submerged in those worlds of new knowledge.
But knowledge is useless if you have no one to share it with.
Friends, I couldn't really say if I have any. Because my friendships are marked by a wall that I build myself. I don't like being known deeply, so I keep everything very superficial. However, I do enjoy going out with them. I have a good time whenever we go out.
Memories, I have many—be they funny, sad, or embarrassing. I am someone who likes to live in the past. Nostalgia holds a strong attraction for me. Remembering my school, high school, or university days makes me happy because it makes me think that out of all the possibilities of my existence, I got to exist at the right moment.
Life, despite being good, is also unfair. From my point of view, there are many innocent people who die without being able to live life to the fullest. Others, unfortunately due to their mental health, didn't find another path than taking their own lives. Which is sad.
But let's move on to another topic.
I was never a believer in the paranormal; I was always one to seek scientific explanations. But now, I know there is another world we coexist with every day.
Perhaps you wonder how I know, and that is because I am a ghost.
Winter, my favorite season of the year. That day I had a nice hot coffee, lay down well covered in my bed. It was a rainy day, just the way I like them.
Anyway, that day I went to sleep, and when I woke up, I couldn't feel my body anymore.
I was scared. It meant I was dead, but I couldn't remember how I died.
A voice spoke to me. I couldn't see who or where it was, but it knew everything about me.
It told me I was in a kind of limbo but on Earth. That until I discovered how I died, I couldn't rest. But I couldn't remember anything; it seemed impossible to find out.
So I got to work. I returned to my room to investigate.
But my mother had just arrived. My heart had never broken so much as when I saw her reaction upon finding my body.
She screamed, she cried, clutching my body and lamenting my death. More people quickly came to see what was happening. I wanted to tell them I was there, to see me, that I hadn't left, but I knew it was futile.
I quickly checked my body to see if there was any damage that someone else might have inflicted, but nothing.
Days passed, and I tried to reconstruct how everything happened, but there were always inconsistencies, or it was a false memory I created to try and calm my anguish over knowing the truth.
Months went by. I saw my mother cry every time she entered my room, or when she remembered something related to me. I followed her always, to see how her life was now. My friends, too.
The world kept moving, and that's when I realized I was just another statistic, that others weren't affected by my absence. It was hard to assimilate for a while.
The months turned into years.
My mother had managed to progress. She no longer felt so sad when she remembered me and did her best to keep living each day. My friends also progressed.
But I didn't. I was still trapped here, and as much as I enjoyed flying over the city and seeing the world from above, I was exhausted—I wanted eternal rest.
I liked going to a forest with a lake, its water so crystal clear it reflected the sun.
I flew down until I got close to see the fish, and I saw my reflection in the water.
And there, I remembered.
The one who had killed me, was me.