Ég er ekkert rosalega góð með titla…deal with it…ég er ekki viss um að þetta megi vera á ensku, but who cares? =D

Og þetta er mjöööööööög stutt…



I turned around for the one last time, looking at the coffin. I felt so exposed, as if everyone could see how I felt, everyone could feel my pain and would try to make me feel better.

Sympathy. A thing that I never asked for. I thing that I, for some reason, never wanted. Why have I always resented that thing, sympathy? Or maybe I haven’t. Maybe I’m just fooling myself. Everyone does, at some point. It makes us feel a bit better, knowing that we don’t show emotion. Knowing that we don’t need sympathy. It makes us feel big, it makes us feel strong. Yet, deep inside, we know that it’s not the case. Being frozen isn’t the same as standing still. Being strong isn’t the same as feeling no emotion.

But still, it always feels so comforting, acting strong and big. You against the world and you're winning. But in the end, the world always cheats on you, leaves you in the mud while it crosses the finish line.

Bang bang, you’re dead.

That feeling – fake strength – kind of reminds me of heroine, or any other drug. Feels good at first, but then you realize that you’re a heartless bastard, and you can’t fix yourself. No one can suddenly become sensitive. It just doesn’t work that way. You can get yourself out of drugs, yes, but you can never force yourself to feel happiness, sadness, proudness…you name it.

I’m not a lost case, though. I still cry, sometimes. When it all gets too much. When the world is starting to gain on me. Eventually, the world will win, but I don’t plan on letting that be soon.

Looking at my father’s coffin just seems wrong, somehow. I never actually imagined him to die…I was always going to go first. He was always so healthy, never any excitement in his life; he just had his own, quiet daily routine.

I never cared about how I looked, how I ate, how I walked, how I talked…I never cared about anything. I thought that that would most certainly get me to hell before he would go.

I have always been illogical like that.

I tore my gaze off of the coffin, saying a final ‘good bye, daddy’ to the dead man, and walking away.