There is no time- there’s never enough time. Our lives will run out and we’ll still be running around, trying to remember something that has long ceased to matter. So many thoughts cross my mind, some might even be worth writing, but what do I know, I’ve lost myself in tomorrow’s frantic pursuit.

Last night I was thinking, what is it with me and love, why am I always on the look for it, when it’s so very rare and euphemeral? See, I wouldn’t consider myself romantic. Valentine’s day leaves me unimpressed or irritated; I prefer my flowers alive, ideally in a garden; hope no one would ever buy me a teddy bear or suggest we watch the sunset on a first date- unless we’re on acid; I’ve laughed in the face of people who uttered improbable compliments or resorted to unnecessary sentimentality too early along the way.

Now, maybe it is all little more than an adverse reaction to everything, possibly even a sign of insecurity. But you can’t change the fact that I like my passion raw, spiced up with lust and just a hint of crudeness. Which is why my secret wish to spend most of my life in a constant state of infatuation makes hardly any sense.

Losing control, I guess that’s what it’s all about. A power freak, who struggles to keep everything in order, yet furtively willing nothing as much as to break free of the chains and live madly, carelessly, randomly, engrossed in something totally inconsequential and at least partially made up- since I normally need to initiate or enhance the process with a bit of imagination. Still, I must tell you, it seldom works to the desired effect. Pathetic, isn’t it?

Today I won’t go on boring you with more attempts to self-analyisis. Let it be; I am what I am and, when I manage to take a step back and look at myself, the mess I witness shocks and amuses me…