Did you manage to run out of loneliness? Cheer up, I may have some to spare. Charming little boy with your bright little mind, you think you've got the world at your feet and you probably do. But what drew me to you was neither your disarming smile nor your ambiguous compliments; it was the promise of depth in your cute eyes, a hint of chaos behind composed features- or was that nothing more than a projection of my most secret fantasies?

Thus spoke the wrinkled old lady to her imaginary lover- being delusional makes the aging process easier. People are terrifying, better stick to cats and butterflies. Can inspiration be aspirational or is aspiration naturally inspirational? This is totally irrelevant; oh please don't let the blinding sun shine in the face of my dreams. What's happening, my words used to almost make sense, now surreal impressions of non-ideas run amok in my head.

I fear I'm changing. I've left my trembling self behind, and will you recognize me? Will you still experience a certain sense of inexplicable attraction? But no, it was only a game for you from the start; after all, you're accustomed to getting everyone's attention. Still, even though I was fully conscious of the irony, I somehow couldn't resist the lure of a few moments in your shadow. Is it because I'm prone to vanity? Is it because I latently believe I deserve the agony?

Stop. Stop revolving around your own reflection. Cease your tossing and turning and disguising the slightest turbulence as a typhoon. Put your surgical knife aside, attempt to actually experience your emotions instead of dissecting them. Why can't you focus on the outside world, for a change?

A prayer for silence, and who might answer it? You seek to cut the chains holding you back, but cutting almost always hurts. Pain spreads deep roots into the ground; is it anything more than an exhibitionist's imitation of sorrow? When love dies, we cry, for we're reminded of our own imminent ending.

Annoying city nightclubs playing the same songs night after night after night. The sound of the waves becomes our ultimate dream, a mirage to keep us going in the desert. So keen on escaping I catch you kneeling in front of exit signs; I find you worshiping highways and elevators, even though all roads lead to nowhere and you're too tired to walk, anyway. The earth is not round, it is twisted; your soul haunted by the ghosts of previous owners.

Love isn't futile; life is. Love blossoms like a flower, erupts like a volcano, rages like a storm, evaporates like morning dew under hot summer sun. Life is a series of unpredictable and mostly unfortunate events; it is life's fantasies that matter- the concepts, the ideals, the memories. Vain processes of the mind seeking to construct meanings, build connections, raise certainties on devastatingly barren plains.

Love is like scratching your skin until you bleed, yet you manage to extract some perverse pleasure out of it; you cannot stop, indeed you mustn’t stop for where is the beauty of a life without passion? Instead of distinguishing between universes of emotions and realms of rational thoughts you must embrace both, let them consume you; there was no line separating them until you drew a boundary to keep yourself from falling apart.

Perhaps your blue looks like my red, perhaps your anger feels like my joy, and there's no way of ever knowing. Still, we're all flawed, mortal, vulnerable, with nothing but a thin layer of soft flesh protecting us from the evils and cruelty of the outside world. Could innocence be anything more than what we've irretrievably lost? Wet wings may be used as a fire extinguisher, but should you wish to fly again, beware what you use for cover. Why weep when there's no one around to taste your tears?

And I tend to forget,
Where I'm going or who I'm pretending to be.
This is no poem, so be prepared.
This is no poem, it just looks like one.
The cities of ivory have been turned upside down,
Teenage couples make out in their ran down street corners,
You smile as I dance on your windowsill.

Remember, once we were content
Just to feel under each other's clothes,
Barely touching the smooth skin of innocence.
Now excitement is lukewarm; desire is blunt.
Conversations revolve around sex
But it's more like debating the flaws of Hegelian philosophy.
We 're consumed by mechanical acts of obscene repetition
That leave us empty, yet still longing for more.

I say “tell me something you've never told anyone else”
You hesitate; then begin to carve your pin number
On the inside of my palm.
It's supposed to make me feel safer. But it hurts.
Even devotion has a price in our 21st century romance,
Our confessions are subject to the strict laws of copyright.
We have matured, at last. Our knives are sharper.

The face in the mirror was there, when I last checked.
A pathetic abstraction designed to remind me
Of my place in the world and the world in my places;
Constructed to limit my being in physical realms,
To help me police my facial expressions.
Does my terror abide with the rulings of fashion
And is this rendition of sorrow convincing enough?

Believe me, I wish I could take you away for a while,
To cleanse your emotions of cold calculation,
To brush out all traces of doubt from your memory,
Whilst struggling to fill your deposit of hope.
But wounds never heal on my planet of loneliness,
I'm trapped in autistic projections of lust,
My nightmares converge at the crossroads of nothingness
Where futures are burnt in the flames of the past.

To him, she represented raw unpredictable passion, the formidable risk of losing control, the potential collapse of rational thought and slow demise of inner stability. He felt compelled to stay away.

In her mind, he had become a vessel for all things unreachable, the forlorn ideal of fulfilment, the encrypted answer to a question she'd never find the courage to ask, the "what if..." that could never be completed. She had vowed to die trying.

She wasn't what he wanted and he wasn't what she needed, yet they kept orbiting around each other like helpless planets caught in an irresistible magnetic field. They were forced to keep their distance at all times, for the slightest move might prove disastrous: too close, and gravity would suck them in a black hole of explosive emotions, from which no one could escape unscathed; too far, and they'd end up free falling in the cold outer layers of the universe, with nothing but a fading memory of sunshine to hold them back.

Knowing thy self leaves you broken, and still too much remains unknowable. Beauty and futility. Mortality and ignorance. Tired eyes are merely allowed to watch as fearless hands take control and start writing. Not to think is to see the world as it really is: empty. Of meanings, of purposes, of certainties. Cease your struggling, chance will always have the last word.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, yesterday. Did you offer your present as a present to the vain gods of feigned security? Recurring themes may keep your weak spirit hostage. You told me not touch Time with bare hands, but I was never one to follow advice and now it’s over. Burnt fingers, the gradual build up of pain.

Belatedly realizing that the only price for freedom is death. Does loneliness hurt more when it’s translated as rejection, or when it springs from an innate need to break all chains and bonds and attachments? If only you could answer just one of my questions, maybe the sand in our hourglass of moments wouldn’t run out so fast.

They say we only fall in love once every seven years, she whispered. In that case, I think I wasted seven years of my life on you. And if I could, I'd probably waste seven more. Believe, believe in the hollowness of time. Tomorrow shall never be freed from yesterday. Our battered ship sails to where sunsets are fabricated. The master painter takes pride in his array of reds.

Sometimes you have to reach the bottom before you can rise to
the surface; sometimes you ought to die in order to be reborn; sometimes you must let it all go, so that something new may
come along. The world keeps turning, tears dry before they reach
the ground, wounds heal so that fresh ones can take their place.
Blood on the pavement is only chocolate.

It must be hard, to weep for the futility of happiness; it must be strange, to laugh in the face of your own sorrow; it must be heartbreaking, to cheat on your god with other gods. You insist on feeding your most sacred ideals to the shaggy dogs of cynicism, whilst humming the merciless tune of fully-conscious betrayal.

Does guilt ever lead to redemption? Could regret serve to ease the suffering of our victims? Can shame lighten the weight of our crimes? I doubt it.

The emptiness inside...more intense than ever. We were granted another chance to see the world through our long-shattered lenses
of innocence. We were awoken by the sunshine and fell asleep to
the sound of the waves; we let insects crawl on our fingers and mice nimble on our food; we dived naked in crystal waters and burnt our defenseless city-feet running on the sand. If I dared utter I love you, it was the kind of love that makes no demands to reciprocity, or
even acknowledgement.

And now we're back. Clothes seek to restrain our bodies like walls seek to confine our senses, and those pointless laws of conduct and daily interaction seek to imprison our minds. Car engines wrecking our attempts to sleep peacefully. Frantic crowds approaching from all sides. Break free or succumb to the pressure.

Nonsense. I'm here. Why am I here? The past is back to haunt us. I thought I'd cleansed your scent off my skin, thought the sun had dried up your memory. Why are you here? Who are you, and what do you really want from me? Do you still hope that maybe... somehow... somewhere... some day... you and me...

Escape is not an option this time. If only dying was as easy as pulling a plug... But then again, you wouldn't want to miss these rare unforgettable moments, when the sky blends with the sea in the horizon; when you want to laugh and dance and scream of pure childish joy; when the idea of happiness begins to almost resemble a possibility, albeit for a short while...