Me, myself and I, what could this mean? One night I was looking straight at the stars. Theyâ€™re quiet; it is weird because they always tend to talk to me. The moon looks at me, but she doesnâ€™t say anything. What is happening? Am I not interesting to them anymore? I dislike this situation; I want to talk to them, I want them to be my secret-holders.
I hear noises close to where Iâ€™m laying down. There are people playing, but I donâ€™t seem to know them. I even doubt to know myself. I punched the wall hard; blood comes out of my hand. I released all my anger with that punch, but I donâ€™t feel any better. Iâ€™m mad at my father, and at me.
That afternoon, my father and I were alone in my house. He was told that I was doing things I shouldnâ€™t be doing. They were all lies, but he didnâ€™t believe me. He didnâ€™t believe in his daughter, in the person that he said he trusted and loved. My father didnâ€™t even let me talk about it; he cared less about what I had to say. He didnâ€™t hit me, but his words were more painful than what his hands could have been.
I ran to my bedroom, where I stayed the whole night looking out the window. I was a hurt girl without a God, breaking apart my pain. I looked at the moon again and realized I could do more, that I wasnâ€™t like the moon that is the nightâ€™s slave. I was not giving up; I didnâ€™t accept losing because Iâ€™m like a hurricane filled of passion for what it does. If in that moment I had my own world, it was because I needed it.
I went to his bedroom. I was in front of him in that dark room where he slept. I tried to speak; no words came out of my mouth because it didnâ€™t matter how hard I try to explain this to him, he wonâ€™t get it. He just couldnâ€™t swim in my sea of illusions.