Dear readers, I've fallen terribly ill. My each thought is turning into heavy gray stones that are sinking deep beneath the waters of my consciousness. And as I write this, I feel terribly faint. I don't particularly intend to solicit any sympathy. I'm being nursed with water, Sir Ludwig Van Beethoven and Nietzsche. My fascination for the futility is quite successful, yes you are right, I'm quite aware it completely quite futile. My stomach aches, my head's splattered on the red walls of reason and my misery painted in Van Gogh.
What misery.
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I'm only a poet.
I see but only misery,
In your truth and your beautiful eyes.
I live for your honest lies.
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I've been quite out of love. To that very point that the four-lettered word means nothing to me but a distant cousin of foolishness sold in Archie cards. I've nearly forgotten how it really felt, and what it used to do. So distant has it travelled from me that my remembrance has turned it into a dove of ugliness, a symbol of wretched belief. A terrible fever, a morbid sensation and a feeling to be in a room of a whorehouse that treats only cowardice. Yet I yearn for it, as my nerves crave for normalcy after being intended to be distraught.
And so look at the way I've just written this, this what I've written, almost worth publishing in an outdated and unfashionable to that very point of never-selling never-sold sex manual. It means nothing, and just like so many other things, it never will.
I am no asexual, not even terrible looking, and yes I've figured -- as it doesn't take much to figure -- that there are women who are in love me. But I seem to turn my back on them. I don't know but I'm looking for someone, someone that even at this bitter moment refuses to give or grant me few words to identify her.
I never had her to lose her, and now that she isn't here, I see her but I don't exactly see her. I don't seek an affair nor am I looking for a mate to marry. Conventions stifle me. Friends I have too many, there words are beautiful, there arms are scarred and there's an unknown wisdom in their embrace but I look for someone else. It's terribly strange. And as everything searches the reason to be with people, to find that woman who has these eyes, only disappointment courts. I know not how they look, but they sure look so swell.
I don't know the intention to have written this, like a very good journalist, I know that I lack the basic structure to have this story sold. But since this blog doesn't belongs to no capitalist, nor am I a communist to begin flouting, these words get printed here for free.
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Last night I felt death. It was beautiful, and just a flash it was like. As soon as I died, I woke up. I think the moment I die now again, I'll wake up. I think this is the way it basically goes.