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?

We're running out of hope, you and I. But still. It's possible to see why it might all be for the best. Keeping a distance so we'll never come to hate each other. The walls are crumbling in. The room is cold. The wolves of doubt roam free- I sleep at night.

We're running out of time. It's true. Sometimes I struggle even to recall your face. I trace your shadow's outline with my fingers, and feel the darkness settling in my heart. You're not the one to blame. I'm not complaining. Stories built in the future fall apart.

The string between us, heavy like a magnet. Opposite poles not destined to come close. Oblivion paints a mask on every corner. The ghosts of empty memories grow strong. Promise to dream of me, and I'll protect you from all the terrors hiding deep in me.

Learning to drive is like readjusting to a new body. Getting to know where it starts and where it ends. Exploring its abilities. Becoming accustomed to its weaknesses and shortcomings. Discovering its joys and dangers, limits and possibilities.

Wearing a second skin makes you clumsy, at first. Try glancing at mirrors to see if it fits. Probe with your fingers to find out where it hurts. Remember that pain and pleasure are inseparable. Keep your mind on the road, your hands on the wheel. Resist the temptation to close your eyes in fear.

Learning to feel is like readjusting to a new soul. Peel off the layers of hardened skin. Press the knife into warm flesh to watch it bleed. When stuck in emotional dead-ends, use your fists to bring down the walls. Resist the temptation to scream if the brakes are broken. To die on the fast lane is to leave this world with a smile on your face.

Silence. It's freezing cold outside, and raining. Images of a reality too fragile to be taken seriously. Late-night drunken conversations with strangers lead to the realization that nothing is ever truly left behind. Memories wrapped in tattered excuses, carried in a worn-out bag that gets heavier every day.

Those mornings always smell of solitude and unfinished sentences. To mature is to replace your soft shell with an impermeable one. Behind the walls, your screams remain unheard. Wear the mask. Smile politely. Weave the tapestry of hope around you, climb the steep staircase of expectation again, even though you're destined to fall, for there is no other way to make existence tolerable.

Keep your head high, all is not lost as long as you can laugh and weep and dream and experience, as long as your eyes are wet and the blood runs hot in your veins, as long as you can touch and be touched, love and be loved, hurt and be hurt, as long as the world resembles a vast, terrifying jungle full of monsters, thrills and revelations.

Strictly speaking, I'm not the one to blame, I was just made like this. Eternally incomplete, always missing the point, perpetually restless. Seeking the hidden pleasure behind the veils of self-inflicted pain. I say the wrong things to the wrong people, so that the bitter taste of regret never leaves my mouth.

A humorless protagonist in my life's cheesy tragedy. To avoid being left alone with my self, I fill my days with strange faces, I am drawn to the warmth of unfamiliar bodies, which leaves me frozen inside. At night I like to walk in the hostile city's unlit streets. Too afraid to die, I am content simply to flirt with death's shadow.

What is worse, to suffer in silence or to silence all sufferance? If I scream, will you come and scare my nightmares away? Dare to pity me, and I'll laugh in your face. All the lonely people belong nowhere, and that's the only answer there is.

Don't say a thing, I understand. Denial is the key to the core of your being. No thank you, I'm safe and happy in my little cell, you insist; the walls begin to melt so you lie down and bury your face in your hands; from a distance it looks almost as if you were making love to the floor; it could be the beginning of a new existence, only your tears are fake and the marble is barren.

Mercy, the old man can hardly remember the beginning. Show some compassion, young ones- do not ask for the end of the tale. Pure sunlight, would you not give up all your aspirations for a delicate uncontaminated beam? Whole continents are sinking in the oceans of expansion, humanity itself stinks of rotting ambitions and insatiable greed. Please, wait for me before you cut the cord, we can still make this death worth dying for.

Your hopes seek to fly, but you've learned to cut their wings before they're old enough to rebel; instead, you let them carry the weight of broken dreams and accumulated disappointments. Carve the same word on your palm every single night, then lick the wound. Blood may taste like iron, but at least it is warm, it is full of life, and it's yours to the last drop.