The last of its kind

Right now, time didn’t matter at all, he was living outside of it, time was merely a consequence of himself. Traveling from one end of the galaxy to the other, through the depths of the chilling darkness, he was searching desperately for someone, eagerly trying to find anyone like him.

He found himself at the birth of a new eon, he could name it anyway he wanted, since he was the last of his kind. He became harbor of history. He desperately moved from one world to another through veils of mist of the past lost in a long forgotten memory, a mystery claimed by no one. The thought of all these ancient worlds was hidden in a tear somewhere, a melancholic drive for an ancient nostalgia. He saw that all these spaces which once belonged to his race remain just a void now. Humans are not what they once were, they’re no longer anywhere to be found. Never finding the wisdom within him to realize whether this is a good thing or a bad one… it could be both, symbiosis hidden somewhere in some elusive heavenly values.

This entropic barrier which is moving time in a single direction was useless for him, because in the essence of his humanity lied the chaos of mixing tenses. The future was entangled with the past, and his present felt like a resentment with a feeling of nostalgia left behind… a nostalgia for the oblivion and all the first beginnings.

The nature of his thought became wicked in madness, it was twisted from a distant cry, a faraway calling. This calling echoed a presence buried deep inside every strain of amino acids in his blood. In this state of awkward enslavement of oneself, he remembered a youth before he started to conquer his dreams. Then there were hopes, ideals, emotions, other people. Now, for the first time in his ancient life he was denied of everything, and this became a cause for spiritual exile which lied in the foundation of his curse. His hollow shell was void of humanity, filled on the edges only with hungry demons. His fear was woven in pain, and bred in sorrows and empty despair. His breath was heavy, old from exhaustion.

And he stood there across the abyss of all human fears and sufferings.

With a pride of a solitary sole, he found out that he was condemned to his marrow, awaken from nightmare just to enter another.

Convenient manners

There it is, look at it for crying out loud… crisped from extreme cold leaf on a naked tree in the middle of a long winter night, a vain promise of white within white cover. I might easily succumb into nostalgia and spend the rest of the better part of an hour staring at that lonely sad sight without blinking, occupying my mind with melancholia coherent only with this frozen winter breath coming out of my mouth. But there’s no snow in sight, and I’m not going to doubt for a minute to stay here, of course…

In my fraudulent winter walk, I’m going to use these long legs to position myself somewhere warmer, out of sight and everywhere at the same time. The only functioning melancholia I have at the moment is the dystopia in my mind, this desired state of kink I’m living constantly, the only prescription for the mind contagion I’m so comfortably accustomed to enjoy. There’s no escape from here, and I have things to say.

So I do what I must do, and I do it in a convenient manner. Restlessly I make my moves across this board of life, hoping that this game is never going to change, never going to end; I don’t need to win or lose, I don’t have desired outcome sculpted from expectations and disappointments, I just need to be in the middle of the game. This loud beat is my track, and I'm that dancer... so, I dance!

All those men inside me

The tune of your smile gently opens old distant frontiers, making me forget myself, who I am, what I am. And I start to think, I’m someone else, someone without a past, my past. A freshness of your touch guides me toward nostalgia of my innocence, lost somewhere in times before rain began time. That forgotten beauty of my soul can easily convince me that I need you to open my days every single morning, and close them in the depths of every night. I could even deeply care for everything which you think that you represent, purity and innocence at heart…

But, that wouldn’t be me, that haven’t been me for ages now. I am that disturbed occult preacher, whipping your naked soul. This wild heart should be your punishment, a twisted omen for what you deserve when you tell a lie. And your lies are kept in pits so dark and deep, revealed by your consciousness only to souls like mine… deranged by habit.

So, I’m going to forgive you the half of it, because you showed me who you truly are… I’m not going to enter you, this time out of pity! You’re lucky, I always show an affinity toward sexual release, but I rarely show affinity for absolution… many faces in here, in the kaleidoscope of my personality, and I’m showing you just one; though it seems that some men in me are getting really tired. Next time… well, we'll see how it goes, why bother and try to predict the future!? It is what it is, how it is…

My potent pale ember… we are victims of ourselves. 

Another day another lie left in ruins, somewhere out of sight;)