*

  I used to want to write it all down, word for word, breath for breath. I used to be naive enough to think the logical arrangement of symbols on paper could somehow retain some of the original warmth, the original spark, the original... anything. But the truth is far more simple, I pour my self out on paper trying to be methodical, I empty myself and the result of all this out-pouring is just as empty.
  I think that is how my personal writing grew nonsensical, so that unless you have the one word that clears it all out you can never be too sure of what or who this is really about. I try to enslave the fragmented moment, the feel of it in a move that is almost desperate, I know I'm failing and words are always haunting me.
  Moment after moment I lay there breathless, trying to take it all in. "I will remember this," I think, but usually the only thing imprinted on my brain and memory is the desperation of trying to remember. I'm caught up in the fragrances, the feel of warm skin, of cold sheets against my body. I throw my head back and soak in the sunlight when I walk in the streets, this feels too reckless for someone who's learnt to always to be in control but it feels good sometimes to let go. I twirl around nostalgic, I play with the light and then hide, I like to go to bars unaccompanied and just drink something alone, in that moment I escape in others without interacting with them.
  People tell me I'm an odd one whenever I say that.
  But they say so anyway even when I don't.