I have no idea what to talk about. It happens. I stare at the emptiness of a blank page, emotionless, thinking about that beautiful monologue from American Psycho.

“I had all the characteristics of a human being—flesh, blood, skin, hair—but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that my normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality, a rough resemblance of a human being, with only a dim corner of my mind functioning”.

Here it is. This is one of the best things I wrote in my entire life and it’s not even mine. I can see myself in that description. It reminds me of my time in university. I attended classes, joined more than a social club, spent hours wondering in nature but I simply was not there.

People talked to me, stuff happened, the weather changed with a fast pace since the university was located on an island. I was merely a witness of what happened to me. I remember a hill that overlooked the entire town.

It was pretty popular, however I found out about that only during the second half of my first year. It was 10 minutes distant from where I lived. During the day, the hill was crowded. During the dead of the night (around 03.00 a.m.) it was the loneliest place in the world.

I used to walk all the way up with a torchlight and I seated on one of the three benches that overlooked the sea. At 3 in the morning even birds are quiet. My favourite time was when a full moon displayed in the sky. That was the peak. I didn’t even need a torchlight. I used to seat there for hours. One of the few times I allowed myself to be the real me.

Two years have passed and nothing truly changed. I don’t study but I have a job. That’s the difference. In both situations I try to do as little as possible.

Those years were lonely and I can’t help but miss them. I was 22 yesterday, now I am 24. Where does all the time go? Feel like I am living a fantasy and not a pleasant one.

I overlook the park and I leave. Somehow, I managed to write something. I sigh and I whisper to myself:

“This is not an exit.”