A miserable writer who longs for life.

I love literature and reading. I've read many books, and I live the life of a man who works and toils for a living. I want to write, but I don't find the time, or maybe that's a lie so I can laugh at myself. Often, when I think about my life and look at it carefully, I contemplate how I can live a life I love. I search for love everywhere, but I don't find it. When I'm among the people I work with, I feel like I don't belong to them. I may understand them, but they don't understand me. I feel them, but they don't feel me. I give myself hope that this is my life, and I must live with it, no matter what, and I must overcome these circumstances and triumph like a warrior hero. But I find myself indifferent, searching for happiness and joy in a place dominated by sadness and gloom. I try to spread a smile on the faces of those around me, and although I treat them with good intentions, I find them cunning and harmful. I try not to be sad, but my feelings overcome me, and sadness and gloom prevail inside me. But I quickly overcome them and see the naivety and superficiality of people. Their minds and overlook their deceit and harm, how truly naive I am, I want to change minds that do not understand themselves until they understand me, and despite that I am forced to continue my life until I lie in my shroud and go into a deep sleep.

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