There is no time for poetry on the path of self-deception. I don't think I expect you to return anymore. Who taught us to embrace sex as a means of communication? The future seems bright sometimes; then i delve deeper into the past.

Nostalgia has scarred our souls, so we dream of flying. Few things hurt more than the suspicion you might have nothing worthwhile left to say. Have you disappeared for good, or are you still listening? Your days are blessed with tenderness and warmth, yet you still manage to feel lonely.

There's a limit to what you should share as there's a limit to what you can keep hidden. I'm frightened that the spell will break. Do you still love the things you used to love, and do you ever miss me? Today I weep for the silences we'll never be able to fill.

Growing up the way I did, I learned not to trust many people. To protect myself from disappointments, I never expected much from others- or life in general. I got used to blocking the painful memories of rejection, betrayal and those innumerable uncomfortable moments.

As time went by, I constructed an impenetrable wall around me- you could call it selfishness, or even a kind of autistic withdrawal, if only it didn't hurt so much. All my life, I've been looking for the antidote, which only seems to come in the form of love.

I've searched for it in enchanted forests, foul-smelling caves and twisted labyrinths; I've followed paths that led nowhere; I've shared my deepest secrets with strangers; I've shed tears in front of indifferent statues.

And whenever I discovered something that truly resembled it, I soon got scared that I'd never be able to overcome the barriers, so I retreated into my shattered world. You see, I've let so many people down that it's way too hard to believe I might actually be worthy of affection...

I've sent many letters to many people, and here I am again, trying to carve my way back to innocence. Haven't I lost my right to beg for your attention? Let the night drag her velvet cloak upon me; after death, sleep is our only natural means to oblivion.

Why do I make the same mistakes every time? I'm haunted by the ghost of an incomplete past. Release me, don't you see I'm only trying to drag myself to the surface? I'm calling out for you, but my messages-in-bottles never reach your shore.

Forgive me, I'd say, if I deserved to be forgiven. Instead, I'll wear my mask of strength and push you away. Never meant to cause anyone harm and yet that's what I always seem to be doing- polluting all I've ever loved with arrogance and doubt.

From The Place of Dead Roads by William Burroughs:

"Time is a resource. Time runs out. The most basic problem facing any culture is the conservation and disbursement of time. Human time is measured in terms of human change. So the most flagrant time-wasting may minimize change and thus conserve time.

"The English dictum of never going too far in any direction is actually a time-saving expedient, ill advised to be sure when it may be necessary to go too far in all directions for a bare fighting chance of survival. Utopian concepts step from a basic misconception as to our mission here. So many snares and dead ends. Nietzsche said, "Men need play and danger. Civilization gives them work and safety".

"Some cultures cultivated danger for itself, not realizing that danger derives from conflicting purposes. Happiness is a by-product of function. Those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war. This is the flaw in all utopias. A society, like the individuals who compose it, is an artifact designed for a purpose. As to what life may be worth when the purpose is gone..."

Does insecurity come before or after doubt? Can devotion be compatible with independence? How can two seperate "I's" merge into one all-encompassing "we"?

When frightened, you seek to reinforce your sense of individuality. "This is me, and I'm doing fine, albeit in a slightly inconsistent way", you whisper to yourself, again and again, making it sound like some kind of incomprehensible mantra.

"I'm whole, even though I tend to believe that my better half is out there somewhere. I've been in love with shadows and ghosts and strangers, and the occasional real person, too. Yes, it's mostly been a solitary journey, but not without its joys."

Then silence. We've watched our utopias dissolve into dust, one by one. If love is the only antidote to loneliness, where does freedom fit into the exchange, and does our happiness truly depend upon it?

What is the answer to the eternal question?
What might be the question, if the answer is no?
And what if our alibis coincide?

Like drugs, philosophy transports you to an artificial universe. There, amidst the hidden traps and dangerous creatures, a discerning traveler may find innumerable tools to make everyday life on Earth more meaningful, inspirational and tolerable.

Walk around in littered streets. Crowds caught in a pre-election frenzy. Give us a break, not another break down. The ship is sinking. Maybe I've lost you for good this time.

The inhabitants of Planet Chaos are debating the laws of gravity. Beware all audience-seeking strategies. There is only one method for exorcising loneliness: you will first have to sacrifice your impenetrable realm of melancholic serenity as a sign of goodwill.

From a short story by Jeanette Winterson
(published in last Saturday's Guardian):

"Once upon a time there was a polar bear. He had nowhere to live so he came to live in your head. You started to think polar bear thoughts about icyness and wilderness. You went shopping and looked at fish. At night you dreamed your skin was fur. When you got in the bath you dropped through nameless waters deeper than regret. You left the cold tap running. You flooded the house. You dived into winter with no clothes on. You sought loneliness. You wanted to see the sun rise after a night that lasted as long as all the things you have done wrong. You wanted to see the sun come up and no one to be near you. You wanted to look out over the rim of the world. But you live in the city and the rest is gone."

(...)

"What's the difference between a dinosaur and a human being? A dinosaur destroys everything - but doesn't call it progress."

It's hard, when you suddenly learn how to feel again. The joy and pain of being weak, vulnerable, alive; of watching the sunset as if it were the first time. Eyes wide open struggle to get it all in. Bodies of wax melting under each other's heat.

There we go again, looking for the secret recipe, the magic spell that will grant our shared illusion a speck of eternity. When the night drops its gentle veil upon us, all our wasted moments become one before they are drowned in the bittersweet tears of nostalgia.

Don't leave me now, I'm blind without you, the sun is no longer enough...

Sometimes I can't stop wondering what hurts more: our words or our silences. We stand paralyzed, expressionless faces mask soundless screams as we watch the chasm growing between us. Fragments of an envisioned future scattered on the floor- has all hope of communication been lost?

An ashen cloud covers the city; flames lit the battles raging inside us. Agoraphobic souls in a state of emergency. Shall I give up on you before the dream has had a chance to materialize, should I go back to what i know and feel safe around?

After all the great wars, our armour is filled with holes, yet the iron has become one with our skin. Every time you remove a blood-soaked piece, i sink helplessly into a sea of agony and expectation.

A cynic that falls in love is like a walking paradox. A pessimist, who begins to paint the future in bright colours, has probably lost all touch with a once solid reality. At night, cicadas struggle to cover the noise of passing cars. This city's inhabitants have long given up
on sleep.

Did you think I was gone for good- and did it matter to you? For a while, I assumed I had nothing more to say, yet it seems I've been granted another fleeting promise of inspiration. A lot has changed, though I'm still haunted by innumerable ghosts. Would you care to be my imaginary audience once again?

The past few weeks have been so unexpectedly wonderful, it was hard to sustain my faith in the futility of life. Unable to find a reason for despair, I was inclined to mourn for the transient nature of desire, but all my attempts were spoiled by the stubborn and totally ungrounded belief that even better times lie ahead.