Emiliano Mancilla

It’s easier to say that god hates me. At least it gives me some relief. 

It’s easier to blame him while I lay down in my empire of misery. Nevertheless, the voices in my head recite their speeches sooner or later. It’s not difficult to remember their questions. 

Every time I lament about how things are not working no matter how much I try, they ask: Are you really trying?

Every time I get mad about how others obtain things because of their name or their contacts, they ask: What have you done to make others care about your name? Isn’t it your fault that you don’t have those contacts?

Every time I wonder if it is because of my skin or my physique, they ask: Why hasn’t that stopped others? Why are other people getting what they want regardless of your shitty excuses?

Every time I get anxious about the possibility of my useless destiny, they ask: didn’t you say you created your own destiny?

Then some conclusions come to my mind, “Maybe I’m not good enough” “Maybe I should face reality”, in the end it is possible that my body and my mind are not capable of fulfilling my fantasies, and the actual question comes to the spotlight. 

How can I kill the fantasies before they kill me?