Too old for decorer style, too young to keep being a kind of modern hermit

Hermit girl killing Sundays, killing Saturday afternoons by means of reading, heavy metal and co. (I’m not that poppie, Sesinürén), diadems, thoughts to create micro-cosmos and surrealist cosmogonies, observing realities and kitsch worlds. Here I am, while everything keeps going, rolling, running. Forward. Forward. Fast forward. Sometimes I dwell in dreams or in some anachronic space, inspired by the 60es or the 80es. I guess I’m not the only one. Moreover, the nationalists in this State (all of them) make me feel I’m misplaced and that I can’t belong nowhere. Thinking about such things I feel I’m too old to adopt some decorer style, mainly because of the colours and freedom it implies. Too late to express that sort of freedom, maybe. About to turn 24 this month...I’m too old for decorer style...but not to keep adding some elements of such colourful style into daily life. Golden shoes, violet, green socks, happy-blue tights (pantyhose), flowers, polka dots, pins, hairpins, diadems...some odd make-up on the eyes and lips from time to time. After all, I’m looking for some freedom I can’t reach by leading some kind of modern-hermit life. Too free inside, but only inside, like most of us. And several constraints don’t let me have a peaceful and repairing sleep....just one or 2 nights of decent sleep per month...or each 2 months. Maybe that’s the physical reaction to my hermithood at a wrong time...too much time alone thinking about too many things...and too poor sleep to compensate too much thinking and hypothesising. Sometimes I think I’ve gotten used to it...ah! but I’m wrong, indeed. It all makes me become a bit more surrealist, having lost notions of time and space, of me as a real person, sometimes, having written strange poems to the wrong person, being grabbed violently by events and memories from the past, grabbed and then thrown against a wall. Then comes a bunch of nightmares and nauseas...and realising the problem comes from a lack of sex (no more months, please), which for me is therapeutic...inner chemical stuff, another kind of communication. My mind misses it (even when it was surrealist...hehe.. that voyeur-funky-red lamp, M., and the sillage of the night of the bikes...well, that story was kinda taken out of some movie and was a bit murakamian, actually it was better when things were unreal around, than all the times the context was normal)...my unbalanced brain taking refuge in death metal and kitsch music from the 80es. That’s it, too young to lead a kind of hermit life. Getting old, maaaan, but at the same getting young. I might end up developing some sort of schizophrenia...