I make no sense, there is nothing to hold sacred or to let go. And you know it’s funny, since I have been longing for so long for a reason to give everything a soul to pursue and believe in. But it seems that the universe has been waiting for its own reasons to give in. To throw me into this deep void of untitled madness which I will never figure out alone.
Carving deeper to what is left, to songs about cuddling ballerinas fulfilling destinies of those who hate art, I realize that I will never be able to write again. These passages, words, phrases remain floating in vain. Once in a blue moon I will read them again and constantly say to myself don’t look back, don’t look back, no, not now, maybe later…. Ironic enough though, there is always a detail to remind me. And I’m aching, crying for the times when it was perfect and artistic, with cloudy days that seemed warm and cozy, never cool and dreadfully hostile. Now they are the ones pointing fingers.
I scream I surrender but they would never listen. Chairs breathe through the peaches that slipped from the table and remained on the same old chairs. Some peaches are on the ground, intoxicating the floor with redemption and lost gestures. Well they were funny once, tender, withdrawing every drop of skepticism. They are now poison flooded with regret, the type of regret one will never know until helplessly trying to deny it in order to keep sane and lucid.
There’s a blue moon outside and so I read these again and the peaches rot suddenly, turning to ashes of shadows from the early past. I hate you, beauty of form, Art, I hate you forever and you will never foster me again. But I will look for you. And you won’t be there. In the end, it doesn’t even matter, does it?