‘Forgive me, for they’re trying to kill me and saw it for the first time, it’s was mundane looking, blending in with normality. I stepped outside and begun to live my own life. They’re trying to kill me. Touch one of their secrets and never to join, they’ll destroy everything you love’. - Anonymous With the sun, finally is aligned on the account of the Earth that moves with anyone noticing, besides the change of light, had right over me, as I lay done, on public grass that had been recently cut. I struggle to keep my eyes open as rays of sun beams done, feeling that it’s going on purpose just to annoy me. As a quick solution, I close my eyes and let those rays warm my face. I adjust one of my legs, lifting my knee up, as the other lays flat. With my hands clasped and using them as a makeshift pillow. My intentions to lay on this grass, openly at the park is simply to be alone and have the time to meditate, instead, I’m rather insecure, mainly over the usage of the frame of my body is presented to anyone who walks past and for whatever reason takes either a glance or a moment to look, as they walk past, play, ride bikes or even sit near me. Though not on purpose, it’s by the laws of its own nature and in simpler terms, just where the thoughts with words have landed. All I wanted, is to get caught on in the threading thoughts that have some sort of heavy substance in and because of introspection that can lead ways to self-improving. Even though I know, people have told me, just to say something or to let anyone know what I want, but I know, even if I speak up, it won’t do any-good. Not in terms of being frowned upon or perceived as mad, but to all those I know, seemingly to be so normal, they’re one alike to each other and aren’t deep thinking philosophers, quite connected to their culture and won’t understand this deep poetic and stoic questions I have about myself and to this world, I simply want to go beyond my physical limitations and transcend to what my character had developed in the natural course of the life I have lived. To this park, I smell the grass, because I am so close to it, the aroma of the bland air, I hear children vocalizing their joy, as they interact with themselves and the playground. Mothers in groups with their assuming latte’s. A group of young adult men, playing touch footy, a maintenance man mowing farer grounds and the traffic over the block and out of sight. My mind grows tiresome to thinking in insecure thoughts, thought it’s been a short amount of time my body clocks tells me otherwise and sometimes it’s best to say nothing at all, even to yourself, the truth could hurt and for this attempt, I have the inability to start a honest conversation with my inner-world. Maybe I’m just looking for something I can’t have at all. And have to accept, not only to place of time in history’s spectrum, but my character and status in the world. Having accepted that I made some sort of effort, throwing out my empty bottle of water along the way to my car. Search the key that will unlock my car. Not even hearing a song I like, to the car starting and question why some buy cars in relation to their work. Newspapers on the passenger seat, empty coffee cups on the floor, the aroma of the interior of my car, leftover smokes. To when I drive, is at the same time the rest of the community is out on the roads. Working in concert, just to get in the way of my route. With my driver’s window down, in a quick swift of the road’s scent, I suspected that to slow me down on the road, is a conspiracy to prevent me, by urban engineering with the undertone of conspiracy, to slow me or to put me off, from improve myself. At least in middle class life, there is a slight unraveling of not knowing what will happen, only if you can notice and despite of petty it is, never to be dramatic enough for a biography film out of Hollywood. In this interrupted run of going home, the radio did not play any song I like, giving me a sense of the cigarettes I smoked, almost a waste. In the driveway, I take in a deep breathe before walking into family life. Where, especially as a parent, one forgets to have time to themselves, one cannot stretch themselves too broadly. In a healthy way, I let go of what I thought that I’m responsible to the time I wasted to prevent any uncalled for outbursts and exit my car, flicking my bud to ground, not taking into consideration that influence. When one accepts married life, taking on more of a quieter life is needed. When it comes to having a family, normally, it prevents one from being the person their youthful self had always dreamt of becoming. Yet it’s somewhat disappointing, despite the rewards of having a person you love willing to spend the rest of their life with you and a chance to teach someone how to live life and yearning for the children not to respect the same mistakes as you. As the noise of your own children are heard from blocks away and it’s only the sound you could ever possibly hear. I had grown up into poverty, where it gives you reasons to be nothing but a drug addict and if suffocates you while you’re clean. Been through it all and I’m still living. Entry level jobs, lived in younger and vulnerable years in overwhelming fantasy. Dreamt of another life and wished for it so hard, that as I stumbled upon middle-aged by accident, I had nothing else to do, beside act on my own private wishing. Now, it literary fame and success, I had written a very small collection of thoughts and memories. Moments only and nothing else. Written for obscurity, the avant garde, stream of consciousness. Nothing. Beside the spelling errors and any grammar mistake I may of left out. I didn’t bother to re-read. For I had lived my life and there is no point for me to read it, it seems almost pointless. Do not take this seriously. Maybe it is poetry's fault, that love is a lingering idea. Something we know and yet can’t have for ourselves. It has conquered the world, mastered our hearts and allowed us to sigh and fall into personal dreams and wishes. Perhaps it is only the thought of it that soothes us and poetry is the aide to it. Otherwise, it’s hysteria and chaotic emotions. Perhaps it’s up to poets to express what most of humanity cannot do. For years I had relay on other poets work to express. something so easily, that’s too simple say, ‘I love you’. Perhaps to all those girlfriends I had, I did not love and lust had produced a false poetic emotion and I wanted so much to be in love and to be loved back, that I had simply got caught up. I remember the first time I had truly felt lustful, with the veil of love, that all those poets seem to make such a big deal over. It was my first kitchen job, washing dishes, just a kid who needed some pocket money. Her name was Courtney, about four months older than I am. Her hair dark, and when it wasn’t in a ponytail, it flowed down her back to her bottom, in a painting like glory. Her skin, exoctic for Australia, lavender, something from Latin America and her eyes reminisces of those parts of the world. Like if it belonged to history, it wasn’t the pay that I originally stepped into this unwanted positions for, she became the reason why I went into work, and forgot about my weekly pay. A waitress, who clearly had better things to do, than to work a shift and in crystal clear tellings, I remember distinctly not to bother her, I felt under-class, even to say something normal, like saying ‘hello’ to her when I first saw her in the day. For a while, I did nothing but to secretly look, I thought if I did that enough, things will turn for good, meaning, it will turn my-way, I was only sixteen. Despite being able to quote a few lines from some poems that I had memorized for such grand occasions. I was simply stunned by her and became mute, forgetting my mother tongue and the colour of my church shoes. Of course, it turned out in excellent ways. Once she came into work, to the staff common area. Putting her bag away in the locker, cursing under her lips, putting awak her walkman, my mere chance that I planned out the timing, I was in the same place as she arrived to work. I looked over to her and said. “Is everything okay?” Looking to me, putting the walkman into her bag and covering it up, with a change of clothes. “Got some batteries Daniel?” “No.” “It’s alright then, I’ll ask one of the floor-girls. My walkman just ran out of batteries and got to walk home tonight.” She closes the locker door. With her body fully turned and facingmine. “Fuck it, I’m sure someone will give me a lift home tonight.” She looks behind me, I choose to ignore that. “I normally don’t bring anything with when I come to work.” She claps her hands together and jumps for joy, racing by me and hugs Anna who stood waiting for her, at the waiter pass. My shoulders sunk. The two begun to converse in some banther. ‘It was nice talking to you.’ I said to myself. We had worked a total of thirteen weeks together. To what I got told, she had finished her degree and moved to European country, I like to think spain. I had not seen her since. I eventually moved on from that job, switching my normal position, from inside the kitchen to being a waiter. Not much life had changed, beside my aging body, my love for reading and my cigarettes, to which now, had been a constant companion. At the starting point of a careless wind, from my whisper. Outside the cafe that I am working, as a waiter, waitering for tips. Connected a park. An hour before I would start work. I would sit in the park and read, as for this time, I was reading Oscar Wilde. leaning against a cement wall, smooth and barely having any graffiti, my legs stretched up, my backpack holding a change of clothes to when I finish my shift. A lady my age, to what I’m assuming, who worked at a nearby juicebar, did the same as I do, reading before the start of her shift. My eyes filled with a crush, the first time when she placed her first coffee order. A quiet type. Someone who never spoke unless she needed to or had something worth saying. If and when someone spoke to her, she’ll kept her answers or respond in quick, sharpe, answers. This day, the idea that I had to make some sort of effort.
This is an earthly want. Nothing came to mind. Days would pass, she gave me reason to go to work, a motivation to go, outside my weekly wage. Always kept a eye out for her, hoping she would come in today to place a coffee order. To past the time, I would think of the most detailed romantic scenes, that redefined poetry and it would astonish any Angel, well, to what I thought my thoughts did in this time of addictive period of being under a schoolyard crush. And I worked at this coffee shop for close to eight months, she came in maybe in total five times to order a coffee, I was too busy to do anything or she was. I didn’t work up any courage to go and talk to her or found/worked on any place to sweep her off her feet. It came and it went, now, all she is to me, a stranger I had once had romantic thoughts over, I do not know her name. The longer i live, the less interest I had end up losing to the outside world, becoming more obsessed with my own inner-world. Overtime, it had become more of a overriding theme it is in my own life. Almost extinguished. I could sink in deeply to my life of the inside. Charming and hanging from broken figures in formed ghosts that wanted to live and at one point, they did, dying bodies, they’ve entered as I breathe daily and whisper reminders to me, as I live daily. I’ve heard to the grapevines that one must live. For reasons unknown to me. Growing up, I had always felt different, never made out like that. Perhaps fate sate at a salon in Savannah and was able to yell loud enough for me to hear and accomply those ghost to make me feel like so. Like I consciously knew, that I was born into the wrong period of humanity, the wrong era, the wrong family had sent me to the wrong school and to whenever I spoke, told me that I was wrong and to every person who spoke to me, made an effort to be my friend was instantly far and vastly different to who I am and never is able to melt together in a boiling pot and melted into a lasting friendship. This despair is a haunting theme, that would plague my entire life, swaying in a concerto waltz. Always leaving me alone, a thump in my throat. Like my family and no-matter where I was, work, social groups, despite how anyone perceived me, no matter what I said, the tone, the style, the subject, no one could naturally understand and it would hurt too much for them to think about it or was too lazy to make an effort. Rendering a thought, I was made only to be a thousand years ahead of everyone and I belonged elsewhere to where I stood. I’m floating. I’m drifting in life. Waiting to discover a place to shrug my shoulders. Or just the stream of emotions letting to feel safe to let go and be myself. And over time, I’m sure people thought of me as lost, different, maybe even undeveloped because I ended up keeping to myself or maybe I’m to be just by myself. I’m unsure really what others had thought of me, any brief conversation never got that deep, maybe they think of me as crazy or damaged. Which is why I took to books in such devotion, like monks to nirvana. Not that I am writing this, to allude anyone that there is something fundamentally wrong with the people I meet over the course of my life. Not even drawing attention to anything wrong with myself, to my flaws, my defects or failures. Maybe it’s the core issues that we’re all fundamentally different and some cannot accept others just to be themselves in the opposite way of others just wanting to fit with a larger crowd to their individual character is, which is always just one person. In my adult life, it brought more issues, like being around others that belonged too much to this earth, the mundane, the laymen, who is too busy trying to fit in and causing me to be physically ill around them, because I’m always alone, keeping myself company, all the time. There is no peer pressure to be just like them and left with nothing to do, other than to be myself, without fear or hesitation. I have no problem with uninteresting or unoriginal people – they may have other, more important attributes, such as warmth, consideration, friendliness, a sense of humor or talents such as being able to make a conversation flow to generate an atmosphere of ease around them, or the ability to make a family function, myself in the presence of boring people who consider themselves especially interesting and who blow their own trumpets. I’ve always carried a life inside and just waiting to pop, to burst, like a supernova. I first notice all this in the schoolyard, as the other children invited or asked to play with thos soccer balls and for someone reason, I couldn’t bring myself to ask or even to step closer to watch. I’m unsure if no one just didn’t notice me or did and ended up only ignoring me. This isn’t written for pitty. I just wondered and by accident found the school library and felt okay enough to be alone and subconsciously knew, that the library is meant to be quiet out of respect to the writers and saw other children there, sitting alone and reading. Not knowing if they are experiencing happiness, but I didn’t see them express any sadness as they read, so I followed suit and the words that I read, gave my inner-self an internal dialog or just improved it. Dripped into daydreaming and found what I wanted in this life there. Never looked back in regret. Through the day, I stayed, dreaming and all it’s immensity of it. Carrying it to the work. I left high school, not really knowing anyone, I was just happy to find slightly more freedom or a choice of freedom in adulthood. But I could sense a further separation from myself to the outside world and I couldn’t stop it. Finding my first kitchen job, I just want to earn some cash, so I washed dishes. Where all the chefs, loud, banging, swearing, cursing themselves to every cut to the finger. Angry chefs. Serious chefs. Everyone seemed too busy than to pay attention to me. Now I know why everyone want to be apart of a group. In my adult years, I could articulate thoughts better. It’s not that I wanted to be apart. I just wanted to be truly myself and have friends at times when I need to be connected to others. In a heated kitchen, you can hear a hundred voices all at once, from a small group of people who constantly wore white shirts and black pants. Over fire. Snacking on whatever they want. I was just glad, I was able to do as I pleased without explaining myself as an adult. Unlike children who some knew exactly what they wanted to do, but got told otherwise because they made it easier for the adults in their life. And by now, I picked up smoking. And until I found Dina and my active career of writing, this isolation in a crowd would be my theme, my suffering, what I did. And it was about this time, I decided to step through a threshold, an isolation where one is trapped in a white room and humming neon lights, that change colour from white to red and at times purple and have a period of just white, standing alone, looking for a door to leave and nothing but heat to what you personally brew from the heart. White walls. White floor. No escape. It’s where sin does not exist. No failures. A thought is a brush with paint at it’s tip. In a fanatic way, I stayed and saw what I only painted. And if I fail this path, I’ll bust a trick and take her money for real and turn to drug dealing, refusing to be poor before I die, becoming a poet who wears a jason mask. Looking for virgin daughters older than sixteen, tieing her parents up and rapping thie rdaughter on the floor as I listen to praises from the Devil. Because I am made out of flesh, with the wild being lead inside. And if your daughter screams too loud, I’ll cut her throat, watch her take her last breaths, than continue. When I bust. Do the same to her parents. Wrapping in thick plastic blue sheets and after three am, take them to the ocean, open their stomachs and let them sink down. As the Devil rewards me, for all my wants, desires and dreams, so I no longer have no-need to turn to a fantasy. This sort of thinking has followed me my entire life. It’s hard to explain why or for what. But there has always been a underlying, lingering theme with my entire sensations. That one day, men in black or a friend caving into their demands to hold their success turn me in. And shot me. I did not take to books, poetry or plays as a coming to age in my own life, not even to explore any fables or myths, as for my own intellect or curiosity, nope. I only picked up my first toread to simply pass the time, because I had nothing to do, no-one to talk to or no friend to entertain me or ourselves. Nothing to do with accidents or mere chances. That was it, I was bored. The redeeming factor to such lack of appreciation to the authors work, I fell in love to each word I read. It was Alice in Wonderland, because there was something about the film that didn’t seem quite right to me and perhaps the book was better, to me, it was and since finishing reading the last page, I made sure that everyday I read something. The only days I didnt, is when I was bedridden of a common sickness, like the flu or on that rare cycle in my life, where I didn’t match up a new collection of literature to when I’m finish up my last collection of works I had bought from the second hand bookstore. And only trouble I’ve providing to my own self-critic, I do not explore literature outside reading novels, poetry and plays, like criticism from Alain de Botton or Harold Bloom, where they’ve laboured so hard to teach the common public. Where they hope, who will read. Regardless of each narrative or style, to each word has brought me a sense of comfort where I’ve lacked in the outside world, or what I could for myself, I felt apart of the world the literary piece sparked as I read, and I listened to each word, in caring studiously fashion, even if the author will never know, they have made a friend or someone who listens to what they had to say. I am publicly agreeing to their work, their voice, or message, but, I am alone and happy to listen. To which, I think, the origins of any literature is made from, one’s utter loneliness and not necessary made for the world or it’s total population, it’s only written and published for others who had unfortunately are born with the same loneliness inside but have nothing to say and are happy to listen. I didn’t notice this than, but as a older-man, looking back at my younger years, my readings begun in the same general time of my puberty years. Perhaps my immediate environment had shown itself for what it is, dull and local and I craved for large landscapes and a language that it had not learnt. What I’m trying to say, to which is simple and expressing in such tiresome ways, my love for literature is a symbolic act, from childhood into a learning process of manhood. I had no-one in my life that I adore or admire enough to look up to or to learn from, perhaps my own anxiety prevented me searching for the right one, maybe I’m right though. In terms of actors or anyone famous, I didn’t think of Hollywood or foreign films. The book was closer to me than the VHS player and tapes. Plus, I didn’t feel like fighting for T.V time in the lounge room where the screen was always covered by glares of the sun. I could just sit on my bed, in my room, my own space and open the book. Since those early years until now, I had lost count of the massive collection of books that I’ve read, even worse, I cannot remember all the words they’ve written in such prace and potent ways, in poetic passages, that’s okay, I’ve always opted to buy books and selfishly keeping them, now, despite how munde or painful life can come into fruition, I could always reread each book, that I utterly refuse to lend out, because only friends steal books or even to sell at garage sales on my front lawn. I could bear to part from any book, play or poem, they’re apart of me, like each of my finger, both lungs, mind and each hair on my head. I see each book when I blink and yes, that’s overwhelming. As for the book that provoked a public love, is one written by Kerouac, to which I hide no shame to say that I’m slightly jealous of. A man who expressed freedom by living his life, with Hollywood looks and has details in words of personal memory, to most of all, a fondness for Jazz and an verbal poetry to when he speaks in street articulation as if he stood always in jazz clubs to wherever he stood in this world and helped the hippies to find their place or just wanted to write novels for the same reason I pointed out for loners to the world. Harmony in it’s composition, life casts upon one’s eyes, as they avoid going into death’s final takings. To love, one could always hope to experience love before death happens. Painted lyres. Absorbing in the heart, so the heart can use the body to devote itself to not solely on love, but to one whole person and not just the act of love. And when love happens, it’s a liberation of one’s defects, like the forgiveness of sin. Cultivating the entire of one’s character and allowing it, in reality, to roam freely and with confidence. Because, not a stranger or anybody, but one’s soulmate has finally found one and loves either equally or higher than one could ever match or to uphold what one thinks how the soulmate should be love and spends their time, either loving or develop life to the standard, higher than Muses and Queens, where the soulmate can level out with Angels. It’s beyond the meaning of my own life. Impacting my soul to holy extents. Unable to tame. To know when a Utopian society can be made, where the Romans aimed for. Trust me. It’s made inart, symbolizing and deriving from love. And nowhere else, outside one’s own romantic life, where one's own destiny is shown so strongly, a reflection from thy lovers eyes. I saw her long ago, not knowing her name. Around the oak trees, head hanged low, vibrant, maybe radiant, barefooted, my emotions are restless, bursting inside of me, the soul unwilling to tame, because it feels too good to be in her presence, a scene stolen from Monet or Renoir, because neither is not around and is left to us to remember this moment, for own goodness and the rest to be in sorrow envy for themselves. We pass, we swerve between trees, sometimes stepping on small yellow flowers, my head matches her hanging nature, trying to keep her in the corner of my eye, waiting for her to look away, so I can have my own glance, yes to adore her physical beauty, but also to provide a stronger image for a potential life, to what I hope we both experience. She stops and puts away her meditve beads and picks a rose, showcases it me. I nod. I can her breathe and moths do the same. Coming to a river bed, we sit, we both light a smoke. The water’s vocal chords provides a certain quiet calmness to this atmosphere. To every glance we catch other doing, we giggle and slow down, to pace the moments, so we can enjoy while it last. Though it’s day, when it’s the evening and the stars light up, I wonder what she sees? I wanted to ask, but the words stay inside. I hope my quiet nature isn’t leaving an impression of insecurity, oh how I stress whether I’m going the right thing. She begins to sing, calm, my eyes open as I become in awe, I turn and face her, my lips part and I listen. The song touched on something so beautiful, that no myth or philosophy would ever touch, looking down the nine - get up, to which I firmly believe, that she sung on something that Angels could only know the meaning of and our Muses spend their entire lives, inspiring us to go find and I remembered everything good about myself and I forgot about every horror inside of my own thinking self. And for the briefest of moments and for the first time, I truly felt free, all because she knew what love is and is intended not only to hold my hand, but allow for us to explore love and save ourselves, from ourselves, being lost in each other. As to articulate love, I can’t, I can only live it and to the poets who cry because of it, I cannot write any poem that mounts to the same height as the experience of love. Perhaps the Angels who reside in Heaven can. For that, I’m left to worry if I ever be truly good enough for her, it even causes me to pray, to lose sleep, it enhances my insecurity, truly no man can ever save a real women, it always ends up being the other way around and the only thing I’m left to do, to repay her, is to love her back and in the actions lays the meaning of love and only felt, in all it’s awakening sensations inside of her inner-world. Where she opens up only to me and for that, I’ll be paying for with the rest of my life. It’s quite an addiction. No. it’s beyond human addiction. It’s truly illuminating, all the history I had once lived, drips away in forgetting and the future dies off. Now it is only the present left and nothing to do but love. It’s a revelation. Rare for anyone to truly experience. She stops singing, my visions of the Paris reviere stops. Breathing. “My name is Dina.”
I bow my head down, lifting up with a wild smile, instantly giving up on attempting to control it. “I’m Daniel.” A mute silence is between us as our breathing matches. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” This is the first time I meet her. My past seems wasteful and everything I had worked towards and built up, had suddenly lost it’s value and the only thing I could think of is ways to make her smile. It seemed more important than finding the meaning to life. Perhaps the meaning of life, entirely depends on making her smile, well, at least my own happiness is depended on her happiness. It’s now tattooed on my soul, something I can’t shift. Nor do I dare to see what will happen if I attempt to shift. “And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I put my head down, trying to calm my giggles. “Abit random. I came here to learn Zen, instead, I’m here in the woods with you.” I light another smoke. “You sing quite well, you went to school?” She shakes her head ‘no’. She brushes her hair back. “I’m using this camp as a vacation.” At first, we talked small talk, in order to get to a comfortable silence, where no obligation to keep the other entertained. I stood and sat next to her, taking out a cigarette for her. And like old friends seeing each other for the first time in years or like we’ve already been dating for a number of years. That undeniable comfortability caved into each other. She leans to her left, resting her head on my right shoulder. I kissed the top of the head. Simultaneously sighed, clasping each other’s hand. For it’s worth, I’m able to let go and we both knew then and there, there is no other and our lives will be spent together. “I don’t want to go back to camp, I just want to stay put, here.” I said. Looking out forward, awaiting her reply. “It seems pointless now, regardless of what we can learn. Let's stay, until we’re unable to bare this forrest” Adjusting her body. I smiled. “It’s funny, I feel already like a monk in deep introspection and finding his core mediation spark and there is nothing else in life to prove, to find, to do, to experience. Just this.” Moving her entire body, resting her head on my lap, looking up to me, in a heavy and searching way, trying to study my face and make up a back story to it, you know, to make up for lost time, where she wasn’t apart of. Funny, I didn’t do that, I was just happy she’s giving me any attention now. Her hair black, short, her skin toned honey, a few inches short than I am, her legs are full that complement her ass, lower back shaped by something from a myth and in ease and in no effort, body shaped in such a way, that not even in the strongest areas of my lust could compose. And in her character, now, like I had known from before, somebody slowly got to know in my dreams and yearnings, somebody that is opposite yet familiar, wanting to be opened by effort, though it feels like I know Dina, i’m unable to define her, as I look at her heavy lavender eyes, staring back to me, it’s something I cannot define and that continues to grow and my own rushing wants to know everything about her, now and all at once. But how she expresses her face is telling me just to slow. There is something very fine about getting to know someone by experience and not by questions, seems more filling. For that, let us be a slow burn outshining a supernova in the middle of the circle of jealous. I stroked her hair slowly for a bit and night fell giving the forest a soft breeze but cold enough for us to want to move. We stood and walked. At first, I walked slightly ahead. On impulse, Dina run ahead to hold my hand in a hurry, we kept silent and made it to her cabin. She stepped ahead, the cabins are single bed and somewhat bland, just white. The monks took up or maybe the contrary, something similar of the priesthood. Keep it blank, having no personal items where one sleeps. Something to help clear our minds. She opens the door, leaving a bit of space. Not making any eye contact with me. “Thank you for being so nice.” A pang hit my heart. Already calling it quits. I was about to son violently. “Would you like to come in?” I nodded yes. She put her hand out and pulled me inside. I wish not to write openly about our first night. For I consider it, almost holy. For now, in voluntary ways, we;re enslaved to love, or at least each other. The sun beamed in through the curtains and heard the monks and other people coming to the camp outside, walking past. The woke me up. I moved my body to find comfort. To which by accident, woke up Dina, she adjusted the spread of her body across mine. “Are awake?” She softly asked. “Yes. Did I wake you?” The people outside conversations got louder. “No. The people outside did.” She looks up and outside, yawning. “I just want to stay put. Do you think anyone will come looking for us?” “I don’t think so. If they do. I don’t mind being told to leave. As long as I can continue to stay with you.” She rolls me over to face her and touched my face. I let one tear. She dried my skin to where it run. The emotion, the sensation, whatever, is inexplicable in it’s attention in not being able to be expressed. “It’s been so tiring until now. Questioning why now, why I haven’t been looking for you in the first place.” And it feels almost not real of being able to love someone that’s made solely to be your soulmate. Like being plucked from a contemporary myth told to royal children as they grew. Conflicting with the thought that this love was not made for writers and their stories. This is how I meet Dina. I signed up to learn Zen, to meditate and slow down my anxiety, not for love. Love or lust was not even in y radar on approaching this trip. For some strange reason, I decided to go walking amongst the oak trees, where owls live, neighbouring the monk’s estate and by accident, run into Dina for who is doing the same as I was, recognizing each other’s face from the following days from the start until than. We embellished in this scene of bearing naked together for the day and at sunset, decided to pack our bags and leave, without a plan or a conversation. It just felt right. After two hours of driving east. “I live down the road, pull left after two blocks.” She said. I didn’t questioned and from the time we pulled up, we’ve lived there ever since. Our past-selves started to bind with memories that we both wanted to forget as we placed no thought to or for the future. We stood out from the car, took one look at our luggage and instantly dismissed it. Dina burst into a great-ball of energy, jumping on me, I caught her, by holding her from the ass up. She kisses me. Her house, one floor and in architure speak, not impressive or a house that stands out from the rest of the street and is placed somewhere in the spectrum of the middle-class, at worse, the working class. “This is where you live?” I asked with a smirk. Matching me, Dina smirks as-well. “No, this is where we both live.” Standing on her feet and dragging me behind her. “Come on, got to show you around before we spend the rest of the night in bed, in the nude.” For the next few days, spent in bed. Conversing. Being surrounded by mute silence, unable to turn and look away from one another. The camp had finished. With no telephone from any of the adminstors. Decided to continue to stay in bed, losing our jobs in the process, we didn’t care. I think we just wanted to make up for lost time we had lived without knowing one another. Neither of us considered the impact we would have on one another and that our individual future would be so intertwined, that our self-worth would solely be felt, knowing its own worth and depending on each other’s attention. The whole and complete opposite to feeling worth, is not only known, felt and sprung upon, in a such hellish fashion, that it’s almost Satanic, when the attention is deprived or distracted from the other, that one’s entire sins that has been committed is burden upon one’s soul so strongly, that one’s feels so depressed and worthless, questioning one’s own motives to live, and the revelation to the horrors of life is shown strongly. For that, for the sensations felt either way, I’m more than content to place her on shrine, wanted or not, for she deserves it so, I know it’s cliche for men and boys to do this, maybe it is completely unwanted from women. Maybe none of that is true or to extent I’m thinking of. Though the love I have does not allow me to feel, to think, to act upon in any other way and if I decide to wrestle that, it would burden my entire being to the point of a complete destruction and death will result in my loss to the wrestle. Love is something I thought I knew, but I was beyond dead wrong to what my mind, my heart, my soul thought love is. Until one completely experiences it and is loved back. To place the other, like I’m doing with her, on a holy shrine that the lover can do, is not only will be understood, it’s demanded. And if I do go into the wrestle, in order not to do it, death will come, bypassing exile. I’m more intelligent now when it comes to love, more intelligent than I am capable of loving, it’s in books, poems, paintings, concertos of symphonies, that constantly chases to what I have with her, despite simple gestures of affections, like holding hands, being cheek to cheek or just to say ‘I love you’ and by simply loving, brings us, perhaps not deservingly, on the same level as our Muses that inspire such great works of art, whats day without a little night, but now, I have to live right now, because I have something more than a real-woman, I have something much greater, that’s a soulmate and for that, like the matching status of being on the same level as Angels, it’s something I can argue that I don’t deserve, despite a continued cliche when it comes to boys and the attention they get from Women, it’s something I want prevent from dying, for I exist, even if it’s by getting attention, my whole essence is based on that. And there’s a dominant impulse for me to tell her that I love her, to always keep her on that shrine, because she matters to me and I get to witness and live with the beauty of her character and need to get her alone to truly experience all of her. When I catch that lovers rhythm, there is no other greater ecstasy that results in personal awakening than what happens when she’s smiles at the efforts of my lovers toils. To which, I’m proud to continue lover cliches and to inspire other great works of art, to spark envy from others where they're left only to act upon to say, ‘awe, why can’t we be like that?’ Despite my best efforts to describe love, to describe what I want to do, to describe my love for her, I can’t, I’m only left to experience it and to act upon. To say that doesn’t happen, love isn’t like that, I can describe love or my soulmate, perhaps I’m right to say, they’ve never truly been in love and more mundane to the normality of their culture they dare to admit to along with their despair that causes them to pray and to act on their need to put me done for daring to boast about my own love, which, is something I can do longer than forever. Falling in love is more than, I dare say, going under the water to be baptiste, falling in love takes you by the hand and takes you the whole way to be rebirthed, to be reborn and for me, it’s how I became awaken and now everything we touch is mere illumination and we dine with Muses only and if we decide our own fate, I’ll die with her. Which is more valuable than anything that humanity can produce.