Do you think it takes strength to stay alive; that going on necessitates courage, when this path has become almost impossible to endure and every step feels more strenuous than the previous one?

Do you believe we're heroes, in a way, us melancholic freaks, natural-born pessimists, followers of misery and masters in self-pity, just because we don't give up on this world, just because we slowly make our way towards work every day, engage in regular sessions of small talk, wear that smiling mask and try not to complain too much?

How convenient, for us to be labeled martyrs, to accept a reassuring pat on the back once in a while, and withstand those customary glances of feigned understanding.

Still, to stand strong is to struggle against monotony's invincible armies, actually daring to alter things; to be courageous means to assail whatever blocks your path, instead of succumbing to invisible pressure or simply choosing to go with the flow, utterly passive, unable to resist, incapable of putting an end to this torture.

After all, it is so much easier to settle for what's there, to bow your head low and quietly bear the burden, rather than make an effort to escape, rebel, attack the codes of conduct, which threaten to asphyxiate your spirit, even if that means surrendering life itself.

From Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller:

"I thought when the drums started it would keep up forever. I expected to see people fall out of the boxes or throw their hats away. There was something heroic about it and he could have driven us stark mad, Ravel, if he had wanted to. But that's not Ravel. Suddenly it all died down. It was as if he remembered, in the midst of his antics, that he had on a cut-away suit. He arrested himself. A great mistake, in my humble opinion. Art consists in going the full length. If you start with the drums, you have to end with dynamite, or TNT. Ravel sacrificed something for form, for a vegetable that people must digest before going to bed."

Sitting alone in crowded rooms. Disassociation. Why let this morbid dream unfold? Sad jokes and devastating echoes. Don't you ever wish you could disappear? Remember, when we were still innocent, our eyes wide open to this world's wonders, our arms eager to embrace whatever tomorrow brought...

We slept deeply and peacefully until the sun rose to make our faces glisten with expectation. Do you know, now, why you get out of bed every morning? Our hatred feels timid, our love disinterested, our excitement shallow. Not even the sweet smoke of denial suffices to disguise the stink of abandonment.

When the winter is over, we'll slowly gather our resources and search for the winding road towards hope. Another year has passed, but the only thing we've learned is that life and death are not always mutually exclusive.

"I could probably hate you quite easily, but I don't think I'll ever find you dull" said the note on the windowsill. Inspiration hides in cheap alibis and unfinished phrases. What does the wind know of desperation? Fallen pillars, a reconciliation of sorts.

If all the stars went out, would the world lose its memory? The flames of rage flirt with the ruins of desire. Repressed fantasies of serenity metamorphose into terrifying nightmares. Staying alive just to watch infinity bleed like lava from the gaping wounds of time.

They talked for hours and hours. Words took them on a journey to the other side of reason, then gravity pulled them back to the ground. The most trivial questions led to discussions about life, death and human nature in general. How can there be space for mundanity in mirages of shared paranoia?

Is this a way to let me know you want out of this, to remind me I made it all up, she wondered. Or do you truly fear my mental depiction of you is so vulnerable to the cold breeze of reality, so far removed from the tangible you that any contact with the truth is bound to disappoint?

And yet, his proposition made perfect sense. This miraculous bubble they inhabited was meant to be preserved at all costs. Together, they stood out of time, unassailable by the forces of mortality, degradation and decay; they were granted a glimpse of eternity, a chance to live an ideal, instead of merely envisioning it.

Theirs was the place where fairy tales end up after the children fall asleep, content in their innocence; the land of happily ever afters, where princesses never grow old, kings never lose touch with wisdom and justice, passion never fades, the Good triumphs and evil wizards are banished once and for all.

Still, why was she so eager to dive into this world of ice, crushing its delicate structures with her weight; to drink greedily from its enchanted springs, depriving its haunted mountains of their mystery; to touch its immaculate core with bare hands; to scream with joy and anguish in its spider-webbed forests, scaring its magical creatures away; to enliven its solemn corridors with music, colours, tears, blood, sweat, laughter, dreams, fears, hopes, desires, expectations and all the painfully wonderful things, which make human existence the devastating wonder it is- even if that meant surrendering her one and only fragment of perfection?

If to welcome something new means to stand naked under the sun, eager to forsake all principles of rational thought simply to pursuit a fleeting reflection of blissful anguish, then who are you and what do you stand for?

If to embrace is to let the barriers fall, if to love means to consider yourself worthy of devotion, if to forgive is to offer yourself a minuscule piece of much longed-for absolution, then whom do you seek and why do you still sail those stormy seas alone?

Doubt tears and mangles and scalds the flesh. Statues dance on the graves of their makers- is immortality a privilege of creators or their creations themselves? Would you want your name to outlive the seeds of your imagination, or vice versa? Where does vanity transform into the deep existential quest for durability, the timeless, stubborn, all-too-human need to defy death itself?