Life is Irrecoverably Wasted ...

I am a lover. I remember… my color was black, the material was leather, the seduction was beauty, my justification was honesty, and the aim was ecstasy… I came to seduce you into a love of life; to help you become a little more poetic; to help you die to the mundane and the ordinary so that the extraordinary would explode in your life. I was then silently drawn by the pull of who I loved, which engulfed me with spellbinding grace and haunted in weirdness. It forced me to dream. After becoming a dreamer I could only find my way by moonlight and my punishment was that I saw the dawn before the rest of the world. I am no poet. I write memories I seize nothing inside. There are many ways to be free. One of them is to transcend reality by imagination, as I try to do, and poetry, my friend, is an odd jealousy—the poet never finds himself near enough to his object. My life seems like a patchwork - here and there. Scraps of pleasure and despair joined together, hit or miss. I want to rem...

I begin by counting the days, then the months. I don’t count anything anymore, except the hope that you will return, and the silent fear that in the years since we saw each other this distance—this awful distance, will have changed us both beyond reckoning. My love where are you? With hope I write to you… as I have always done. I am still waiting as I promised I would. But, I find myself alone and at the end of my wits. Today, after so many days I decided to go out for a walk. It was supposed to be a chilly night so I decided to wrap my favorite shawl around me before I headed out. Oddly enough, it took me 15 minutes to wrap it around myself. I stood there in front of the mirror; I would try to fix it but it just wouldn’t stay on my shoulders the right way. I was becoming increasingly frustrated since it was not the first time I was wearing this particular shawl. I finally just wrapped it around me however it could be wrapped and went out. It didn’t look the way I wanted it to look, ...