Humid breezes tapped a nerve deep under my skin this afternoon,
and I realized just how desperately I rely on mere words, simple sentiments,
and the comfort that dreamless nights bring. I am not who you think
I am, though I could be exactly what you think I am not. I am becoming
what I have already been. I am dying....and I have not yet been born.
My memories are more like hallucinations than faded realities, and I
realize that. Still, I do not mind that the thoughts that comfort me
are decayed nothings; they are beautifully disguised. Beneath their
intoxicating petals and tapestries of mental ether, they are rotten,
corpse-like shells of truth.....and I adore them. After all, is it not
the mere idea of you that I first loved? It is. Perhaps it is this "idea"
that I love only, although my heart shall perpetually deny that. In
a perfect hallucination, ideas are permanent, ethereal, and ageless...
Tonight, while dusk lingers, I will embrace this malignant dream and
all its disguises. Something that has not been born cannot be touched
by death. A strange comfort, indeed.