Lust unfolds more easily in safety. Yet attraction goes hand in hand with fear. Does this make any sense to you?

Sometimes words, which remain unspoken, are heavier than all our utterings. Weight can add value. Weight may increase significance.
It always makes walking harder.

I say, I wish I could explode, scream till my throat bleeds, dance naked in the streets, let madness rise upon seas of monotony, break through the mirror to the Opposite Side.

You ask to come with me; I hesitate, because your face resembles a statue carved in wax- I do not know whether you’re inherently indefinable, or my imagination has betrayed me again. I fear the heat of my expectations is enough to make you melt, and then the journey will surely transform you into my favourite nightmare.

Poems that can make you cry with their flawless depth. Sometimes you wish you'd written them, but then you'd miss the pleasure of discovering them for the first time- when you read someone else’s verses, thinking this is what I wanted to say.
Are we always writing for an audience?

Pessimists tend to be misunderstood for weaklings or losers. In fact, most of them are really determined survivors. Imagine knowingly having to put up with all that's wrong in the world.
Absurdity is not a phenomenon; it is a way of life.

Lacking in trust. She drew invisible lines that no one could cross. Upside down, inside out and beneath the current.
Are you afraid? Are you afraid? What are you afraid of?

Parvus sum, nullus sum. (Richard Burton)

In truth, it isn’t the Unreachable that drives us crazy. You don’t wake up one day and think I want a private island, then spend the rest of your days in misery. No, it is the gifts that are given freely before being violently reclaimed, which hurt the most. It is the seemingly perfect pictures, whose brightness suddenly faded, leaving you broken as you desperately strive to recreate an impression of flawlessness.

And this is why our defenses fail, this why we are prone to error, why we’re so easily affected by other people’s confessions and promises. You may be more than satisfied in your present situation, but if someone convinces you that you can have -and you deserve- much more, that you’re admired, special and needed…I hope you have the strength to simply walk away.

For if you fall into the trap, if you are forced to see what was so readily offered crumble the moment you reach out to touch it; or if you indeed manage to hold it for a single moment just to watch it explode in a million painful pieces, there’s no going back. You shall move around in circles, struggling to recover the untainted wholeness you once took for granted, whilst the screen behind your eyes will only play one, unbearably idealized, scene.

One of the most special things about music is that it accepts –no, it celebrates- the relativity of time. Time. Humanity’s oldest disorder. Ever since we divided existence in days, months and seasons, ever since we began to distinguish between future and past, the battle was lost. How desperately we struggle to make sense of our surroundings, to create an illusion of certainty and control, and yet…who is really holding the reins in this frantic race?

We’re haunted. Running around, trying to make it in time. Make what? As if there’s a chance you might miss your own death. You wake up, again, before the dream is over. Soon you’ll be screaming "leave me alone!" Focus on the present. When you were a kid, you could still manage it somehow. Eternity in the palm of your hand. Infinity in an hour. Now you must take drugs to simulate the experience; even then, it is too heartbreakingly ephemeral.

Memories, plans, fears, traumas…we’re nothing more than a succession of images. Incomplete sentences, unfinished poems, half-emptied glasses. We thought we’d conjured some absolute Essence; it failed, so we seek to exorcise it, but the ancient spell doesn’t seem to work. If god existed, it would probably have laughed itself to death long ago. Provided we’d left it the time for that.

Sunshine torturing our souls with fragments from long-gone summers. It is not people we miss, it is emotions, moments, situations. Don't you sometimes wish you could open these locked windows, allow people to touch you, feel your warmth? Don't you dream of trust and belonging, of being more than a passive observer in the melancholic acts of social interaction?

You've done it before, you know you're capable of closeness, and yet you only let the same old figures enter your well-defended world. In the soothing comfort of their familiarity, conversations flow naturally, your body grows soft and responsive, your mind remains focused on the present, you experience instead of analyzing, you come to life, like a cold-blooded vampire suddenly awoken by midnight-chiming clocks.

To go on, everyday you must convince yourself that you’re in love with a different person. But your love is purely theoretical- it begins to evaporate the moment actions become necessary. And, once in a while, you're overwhelmed by all those repressed desires, so you explode in some unsuspecting stranger's face. But the explosion is a stunt, since merely worlds escape the prison of your lips; you think you're showing weaknesses, a human side, when you're simply fabricating distractions, fooling yourself...

What is worse, you're just hanging there, waiting for someone to forcibly drag you out of your self-inflicted misery, instead of smashing down those walls. And you avoid the most important questions, like What’s so precious and irreplaceable about your detached existence that you'd rather spend the rest of your life in a glass bowl than risk making a mistake? What are you terrified of losing except a little pride and the pathetic safety of your ego trip?

I cannot stop moving in circles for it isn't over yet. Even though I've got my life back; the life I used to have, when I was still unattached, impulsive and careless. Before a constant sense of shame spread its roots inside my mind; before I learned to filter words and actions so they'd fit into the mold someone else had created for me

Filtering, of course, is an on going process. But now I am the one who makes the choices. You could call it pretentiousness or dishonesty; I'd say it is little more than selective unveiling of particular sides. There's such variety in my wardrobe of characters. I'm like a book that changes to suit its reader. And when the transformation fails to produce the desired result, I feel worthless. As if my only task in life was to be a convincing personifier.

Never trust literature that does not threaten to undermine
your preconceptions.

First thing you learn is how to cry,
Naked and helpless as you lie,
You struggle for communication
Or just to capture their attention.

Soon, cries alone won't be enough
And you'll discover how to laugh,
For they may tire of weeping eyes,
But they cannot resist your smiles.

So you begin to imitate
Every expression they dictate
From rage to boredom or lust.
Such is the way to win their trust.

How they enjoy to read your face…
Until one day you fall from grace.
You cannot let them play their game
Tainting your purest thoughts with shame.

Now, masks are often hard to make
-Unless you want them to look fake-
But how on earth will you grow up
If you keep swallowing their crap?

Pretend you're doing as you're told,
Fashion a shield in shiny gold,
Observe behind this fine disguise
The gaping holes inside their eyes.

Spring’s affliction is beginning to take it’s toll. The possibilities for momentary fixation are limitless. Mess around. Transform something old. Resurrect something dead. Discover something new. Just be careful not to leave everything in pieces.

Like a butterfly flying from flower to flower, not because she’s playing games of abuse and domination, but because she is seduced by all those tantalizing scents. As a matter of fact, the butterfly has no idea where she’s going nor, alas, what her tiny heart desires.

But this metaphor has become too sugary for my taste, and I can’t afford being more specific at the moment, so I guess I’ll have to end it here. For now.