I am returning to my favourite books, but they are all so inevitably sad- even when they supposedly end happily.
I am not in love anymore, only in love with fiction. I have grown old.
I am a chain smoker.
I guess I am happy.
I am happy because I do not know what I want.
There is a strange song echoing inside my head. It doesn't have fixed chords, and is a lot like jazz. Except you can't tell when the only person who hears it is me. There aren't any words, or the words are as I make them. And I can't make words anymore.
I have lost the ability to make meaningful words, because they are just that- "Words, words, words"...and if I type "happy, happy, happy" or "love, love, love" it is just the same.
The horizons are receding, and the sunlight is just out of my grasp. And something is pushing me into the ocean and I know that the waves will swallow me up, and nobody will see me again.
Not even he who loves me, nor he who thinks he loves me.
Breathe a kiss into my ear, and tell me that my life isn't academic prose, but raw tactile poetry. And that I can survive alone, even without phantom kisses.