Found written on a piece of hope in a balcony I visit from time to time.

Thursday, 9:36 PM

I am writing this, not knowing what year it is, and that perhaps is because I am writing most of it from memory. It is truly bizarre to write something you feel you’ve written before, as it is the case with living a moment presumed to be lived before. That feeling of bizarreness stems of, I believe, our innate fear of losing genuineness and authenticity, yet the existence of such a fear leads me to believe in the imminence of all of that. It is truly frightening to realize that there is no escape.

And I was all by myself, as usual, staring at walls full of emptiness.

And I was, unusually, imprisoned by the mystical eyes of hers,

and the genuine joy of everything about me,

and everything around me,

whenever she laughed…

Around here, around this chaotic setting, where time and space collide, as if they’re battling over those flashes of her memory, I always wonder:

“Is it the generosity of fate lending me those heavenly moments recalling her ever glowing face? Or is it her, shaping into that graceful light that never lets me sleep? For even when I sleep, she’s the essence of my dreams, and hence the rapid I breathe every time she smiles or just appears”

I, frankly, fail to formulate an answer that’s sensible, or even rational, and it seems to be the case with everything about her. The only truth I know, is that I miss her every time she’s here, and every time she goes. And the only joy I know resides in those eyes of her. And that’s when it ends, only to start over again. For it seems that everything is to belong there, for it seems that nothing there is ever clear, for it seems that, those eyes, verily reside “here”. Here in that unsteady mind of mine…