​Note, maybe for my killers, maybe for no one.

Here with the guitar on my hands, the old strings from who knows what year totally out of tune, my last shelter, here on a dark room, the old gray walls, I can even see what’s inside, besides me, a leak of water, each drop counting my seconds, now I’m just waiting for the soldiers to come. I can’t do much because they killed my partners, I can’t do much because I’m alone, I can’t do much because I’m a teenager, I can do nothing because I’m a coward. I’ve always been able to do something… Something better.

Go to a better life than simply fighting to death for justice and freedom that will never come. I was tired of coming each day here to pick supplies for the family, with the nerves and apprehension at the top, «this one and I’m out» . I always repeated that to myself but never actually did it even if I knew it was the best. Today I really had the intention, or that’s what I believe, but well. My partners felled as drops on the most rainy night and I ran like a runner just about to win the race, I’m a coward. Not just for not fighting but for waiting… No.. Running away from my destiny, from my dreams and hopes, the old ladies at the base always told me to abandon this, go out, become a writer, a good writer because that’s my dream, at base I simply wrote in a little notebook and as you can see, I’m not even that good, the “rare words” I use are simply random words I found on an old dictionary, just to sound more elegant. But… yeah… I was scared of all that, now I’m not but… what can I do… Only now I can see that the real freedom is to do what I want, always. I’d say that I’m with a lot of dread but why would I like to write elegantly on my death note? I shouldn’t even care, I should be writing about my family, my old friends, how I was… But anyways, who knows if someone will read this or will just be a paper in the trash. Better stop writing and accept my ending, I’m resigning, won’t find a single exit.