They stood together in the darkness. “Think I haven't known desire?”, she whispered. “Flesh and spirit blending into one- think I've never experienced it? Might be it is you, who is mistaken, assuming love and lust are two separate things, talking to me of devotion, expecting me to take the reins and lead you where others have led you before.”

She turned, tears streaking down her face, to look at him- but he wasn't there, he never had been. On the other side of the river, he was counting the stars, praying for sleep, wishing she would lie beside him. “Why can't you let passion overtake you?”, he asked the wind. “Let attraction burn holes into your soul- why should we stay paralyzed behind walls of analysis and filters of virtual dissection?”

As the wind blew around her, she carved spirals of solitude on cold skin. “Cast your fear of rejection aside”, she screamed, “then you shall see: indifference is only a disguise, politeness has no place were physical contact becomes spiritual. Why can't we feel instead of formulating; embrace instead of examining; sink deep into this current of sensations rather than remain tied to the mast of a reassuring but fleeting projection of self-sufficiency?”

The night saw it all, and said nothing, for it had witnessed such scenes a million times before. So had the moon, but the moon understood; the moon shed tears for all the lost moments, the unbridgeable gaps and the strained figures struggling to cross them. The moon mourned, because the figures could fly if they chose to; they dragged atrophied wings in their wake, only they had never dared to look back..

The moon wept.
It began to rain.

They traveled with the speed of light, they rode on rays of sunshine, they changed form in spinning images while moving from one dream to the next. Their blood flowed like lava in molten arteries, their hair was in flames, smoke marked their passage on early morning skies- a new day dawning, but they're already miles away. On their shoulders they carried humanity's forsaken memories, they weighed their worth in nostalgia, they exchanged glimpses of a fading past with generous pieces of freshly-baked oblivion.

Time is a man made concept, time is the nourishment sustaining everything, it is the promise of our demise, it is the foundation of the universe. Time is only one dimension among infinite others, yet the world revolves around Time. How can I trust you, knowing our lives are written in Time's script and we cannot resist the Call luring us higher, further, away from all we once held near? How can I doubt you, when the desire to believe is stronger than even the need to protect myself?

When I write, I lose myself; when I write, you and I melt into one; when I write, the earth stops turning and the oceans freeze. After a while, it does not matter if my words are beautiful or if you’re truly drawn to who I have become. Words are more than letters on a page; each one of them contains a whole continent, a door to a universe of unexplored connections and newborn memories.

On paper, our worst fears seem insignificant, sorrow is transformed into pure energy, frustration sustains the will to live, abandonment gives birth to a million possibilities. For the briefest of moments, the creator truly is god- it makes no difference whether the end result will be a masterpiece or a spiritual disaster.

Whatever entity or accident brought us into this world, we were only given three gifts: drugs, the knowledge of our own death, and a limitless imagination. Call them curses, if you wish, but it is they that make us who we are; it is they that define the nature of humanity itself.

From Bukowski's Ham on Rye:

"Every time I see you you have a drink in your hand. You call that protecting yourself?"
"It's the best way I know. Without drink I would have long ago cut my god-damned throat."
"That's bullshit."
"Nothing's bullshit that works. The Pershing Square preachers have their God. I have the blood of my god!"
I raised my glass and drained it.
"You're just hiding from reality", Becker said.
"Why not?"
"You'll never be a writer if you hide from reality."
"What are you talking about? That's what writers do!"

We spend our lives fussing about trivialities, fighting for impossibilities, weeping over the ruins of broken promises, attaching our expectations to the unexpected, pretending that the secret to fulfillment lies in the heart of all the things we cannot reach. We walk around staring at the ground, forgetting how bright the stars shine, how the horizon turns red at sunset, how the trees change into their autumn uniforms. Consumed in shallow acts of socializing, hiding our deepest desires to protect fragile egos, seeking to attain immortality by preserving our souls in formaldehyde.

Till, one day, we'll leave this world behind, and what shall remain? Only a few fading memories; stolen moments we could have experienced, but wouldn't dare; oceans of tears we were to proud to cry; wrinkled bodies rotting behind shiny armour; screams of despair echoing above deserted highways; adolescent dreams frozen like sculptures of ice, already melting. No big words or grand victories, none of our precious dignity, no trace at all of the pain we endured to stay in control, not even a bleak reminder of our supposed strength and unmatched bravery.

If you were to die tomorrow, would you really wish to take back what you willingly surrendered, expecting nothing in return; would you feel ashamed for seeming weak, childish, clumsy, loud, obscene, confused and imperfect? Or would you simply mourn for the joy, the sorrow, the fear, the danger, the passion you could have cherished, letting them mark your ephemeral flesh with the beautiful scars of a vulnerable but vibrant existence, instead of locking yourself in cold rooms- flawless, composed and alone- whilst time kept pouring in like water on a sinking ship?

When something ends before it begins, how can the cycle of misfortune be broken? An attempt to break the silence...and you end up saying too much. Two people staring at the waves, each of them locked in a separate cell. It could have been perfect, it could have been something new, but here we are, holding nothing but air in our arms. A fantasy almost realized, then silence. Back to the world of disillusionment and shattered ideals.

If only I could write about it. Write and write like I used to, create my own happy endings in my head. But there's no fire burning in this hearth of inspiration- just ashes and lukewarm coal. At night I wander in empty streets, begging for a sparkle; all I get is drops of autumn rain. Release me, I've been trapped in this world of perpetual self-doubt and unbearable discontentment too long now.

How am I ever going to fly if my wings are tied with strings of negativity? How can I love, if no one seems able to withstand the madness of my affection? Why do we always let our insecurities come between us?

Nonsense. I fear I'm little more than a frustrated narcissist, gradually and painfully coming to terms with the fact that uniqueness- or even real communication- is merely an illusion amidst this pandemonium of six billion hysterical voices, all screaming for attention.