Decayed Nothings
(painfully, October 2002)

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.