Living In 1948

  Aiden has always longed for being a writer, but he has never had many ideas of what to write about. He could write novels, but he has never loved. He could write terrors, but he has never lived such an experience. Neither comedy he could write, because his life was not funny. Alike everything in his existence, his life and soul was modestly empty and cold. Modesty was not something from his nature, but his life condition forced it. He writes for nobody, he lives for nobody. Unstoppably running away from his responsabilities, and he did not even had much! His family trully hated it when he smoked inside the house, and he loved making them hate. Hate is good, he thinks. Habit. 

  He finally found a masterpiece he could call love, but the person he fell in love with was a coward, and this is for sure worse than not being loved. He longed for freedom. He encouraged his masterpiece to run away with him, but it never felt like doing it. Life was very difficult in 1948. Society forcing them to self-reduct themselves, but Aiden did never accept it. His masterpiece gave up on him. Life has gotten even colder, so cold as the snow that was falling down outside his window. Why does every single one have to give up on me? - He wondered. Maybe he was the wrong one. He should have never had depended on anyone. Cheat life. Cheat yourself. Smoke an other cigarette, make everyone hate and let it go. Let the wings unfurl.