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Here I am.
Only me.
How does me feel?
I am putting my hand through a acid fall to touch a heart, which turns out to be a granate, but there is not much hand left to explode anyway.
And no replace hand with penis or penis with head or head with balls or balls with masculinity or masculinity with love and disgust with redemption. It doesn´t fucking matter because I have no idea how I should feel. Hence I feel ok. Normal. Not proud. Not failed. Not sad. Maybe awaken. Hence tired. Exhausted. Blunt.
I lost her.
But it still feels not like that.
Why I have lost her?
She is here. I can feel her, with all her presence, with all her beauty and darkness. She is here. Inside of me. And she will die with me. She, her, the person, the feeling I created, I shaped, I felt inspired of. Taken away from.
I left her. I did. I left the person she created of me, a replica, a far more unique copy of an idealistic pathetic perspective I ever can fulfill. A misunderstanding by understanding.
Each of us will never love the person we meet, we only leave the person we don´t want to become.
“If you love me, let me go.”
“I can not because I love you. Love is always also pain.”
Love is pure. Love is untouchable. Love is powerful. Love is all. Anything else is not worth to engage with. If love is pain, why should I love then? I don´t have to love. I have to respect, but I decide to love. To whom I open myself to put their love inside of me, to vomit their frustration, their boredom to be alive, their blindness, their paradise down my sanity, to tranquilize, to seal me, to heal me, to feel me, the part I haven´t kept in the shadows, the part which is full of hope and dullness.
It seems I am really not built for this, the fact that we all die but nobody wants to die alone anymore, as human between humans. You are alone if you are not together.