If it seems that I lack sincerity when speaking of love, it is only because I no longer know where to place it. It is above a letter, or it crosses and completes one. It is underneath each sentence, blanketed by nonsensical expressions. It holds two swords, aiming for a major artery.
It does not take much time, before everything begins to blur at the edges. Moments that brought happiness, lose their shape, and quickly blend with yesterday’s laments. There are people that produce an overwhelming sense of love within us, and as immediately as it comes, it goes. What is chrysanthemums and maudlin poetry during the storm, morphs into time wasted on a man with a wrecked mind. The letters mother wrote to father, when distance separated them, and the longing for an embrace turned into a desperate terror, did nothing for her. What was given in return was not emotion, but fists and bullets. Oh, father. Oh, mother. Your blood is my blood, my bones are your bones. I keep your story, but I can no longer live it. I have all the things, ugly as they are, to write my own.
The hours are once counted in childlike anticipation. When the leaves change color, attention to numbers is given to pills. Look at the rope, is it strong enough to hold your weight? Is it possible to undo the understanding that drove away those that swore to remain by your side? And now, it is about everyone else. Contemplating foreign misery, recognizing we are all vagabonds with dirty faces, but I have not yet reached those depths. I see though, I see the similarities. Look at our fucked, little heads. We have the tremors, so we cannot draw straight lines.