It's March, I have not written anything, it's raining but it seems the dried ink has morphed itself into an umbrella; the pen which once used to write odes to the season, now it feels the monsoon refuses to drench the shell I have become. Shell of my own miseries.
I've been smoking cigarettes by the dozen to drown out this demon voice, so evolved as primate, the mate of another odd descent, etched within these walls, bloodstains and paintings, vast poetry transcribed from the mouth of the most high, these torturous images of life's darkened imagery, an eloquent epic told by folk mystics lost in mystery. Myself, an endless cycle, an agony, an awareness, to conquer my own and to rebuild these tragic details, lost in the abyss of sorrow, weeping tears like angels guarding tombstones of fallen figures, cosmic residue leaking through the pores of tragedy itself. Our lives are so vastly monotonous now, our bones urge for the freedom of fight, without second thoughts, these are my final words: to seek conflict and raise up the walls, and in some great, inner act of jeopardy, weaken those walls and overcome such conflict, for faith always lies in an act of forgiveness, not in an act of armament. Disband and rebuild, forever and always, the cosmic arc of another lost membrane.
I miss childish, close friendships. I miss adding new people to my close friends list. I miss feeling my heart beat faster as I approach a friend I haven't seen in a long time. I miss feeling comfortable enough to lay down on someone and let them play with my hair. I'm sure we're all touch starved, but I feel so alone in this. Everyone seems to be going out, having fun, and my happiness seems to be wasting away as I spend yet another day alone. 

Us: both with half-dead gazes, waiting near the half-open window to get the fresh, mid-February-afternoon icy oxygen into our lungs, drinking the blood-tasting, oddly strong, sot pomegranate juice. Your eyes reflect the non-existent dreamworld, reflect the danger of the ocean and peace of summer wind before the sunset. You bury the sun in the reflection of your eyes. You feel in peace that the universe still exists, that the stars still shine. The reflection in my eyes try to find myself in yours. Such odd stuff to do. In my head we are playing our roles in some tragedy’s third act. We are the main characters. No one else is important. I have this narcissistic personality, yet I don't feel bad about it. Do you,my love? I do feel bad that the plot of this film seems way too long. It has too many conflicts. I can’t deal with it anymore.

I remember that evening in August. First time I realized how beautiful you are under the dying rays of sunshine. We were sitting somewhere high, in open nature. New moon was showing up slowly and we were talking about some silly things. That day I understood how important you are to me. How I feel about you. But, of course, my silly soul didn't believe I could be in love with you. How's that even possible? We're ghosts, both of us, but we wander around just to find each other. I saw the bright sunrise of your greenish eyes. The sunbeams of it gave me the warmth that I have been craving all this time. And I wanted to be blessed by them. For all the sins I have done and will surely do.