Only shallow know themselves.

I like walking around the city. I like walking in general. It lets you free your mind, think things over - at times only, but still. I like to be an observer. At the first glance it seems pointless, but it just amazes me how I am aware of the fact that I can go wherever I want, whenever I want. There is no such need but I do this because I CAN. Strolling down the streets of downtown with the headphones in my ears, I observe the world revolving aroud me. I get like disconnected to the reality by music and immerse in thought, in my own world. Streets, buildings, trees, sun, cars, trams, people have new, different meaning, It's all somewhat special. I love this warm feeling, when I can unwind on the bench surrounded by greenery and have some take-away coffee enjoying the sunbeams on my face.
I drink in views and words, and I am enchanted by the feeling I experience. I notice the mysterious beauty of what I see, let emotions go and fall in love with every single moment of my existence...
Even those tedious, it's-better-to-be-with-anybody-than-to-be-alone, sweet as hell, stupid as hell, being the embodiment of Shakespeare's maxim, involved in pseudorelationships, desecrating the term of rendezvous morons, who I follow with my eyes with my mouth wide open, asking "God, how? tell me HOW?!" - even they cannot spoil my magnificent mood.

This is what happens when I CAN. Given that you can if you think you can, what actually makes you think that you cannot? (please give more attention to that sophisticated sentence...)
Is it a sort of masochism? Is it a need of diversity? egoism? overraction? madness? fear? double fear? Which one works best for me? None. Or maybe all of them. Hard to say.

How is it possible to transfer from one state of mind to another? From hurraoptimism and delight to deep depression and doubt in sense of anything?
There come sleepless nights when all the pain gathered under your skin tears your soul apart, all the fears you have become larger and larger with every hour, when stress mixes with bitterness, when the only friend -at least you think so- is your set of pills, when addiction seems to be a must.
Given the circumstances (no, tomorrow hasn't been cancelled, even due to lack of your interest), you ultimately decide to force your sick mind to fall asleep at dawn, hoping for the day to bring solutions or oblivion, which the night hasn't brought.

It's kind of hard to live with all these contradictions in me, but apparently I need it. I need it like a bad habit. Moderation is a fatal thing, nothing succeeds like excess.
Maybe it's a way to go, maybe it's not. Who knows?
My choice, my problem.

After all, it's all a delusion, this life.