Chi·mae·ra

Look, I am writing. Writing because of a love for a certain font. Writing because, I adore this midnight air. And the guitar in my ears. Because, I love how black blotches on white. White as in, emotions that vanish leaving many faces in my past, white, as I chase them until far away. Not just the ones I loved. Also, the ones I didn't. Also, the ones I couldn't. The many who I ignored, consciously, unconsciously. The dozens I split my fags with. The dozens on the near by tables in cafeterias I asked for a light. And vice versa. The purposes I chased, the purposelessness that chased me. For years together, the futility of various manifestations of a promise of prosperity, leading to layers and layers of bias over my mind. Forgetting the truthful core I am made of, honest, blatant. Naked, open, free, lover. The stories I am made of, and those that I make up. You know, a lot, a serious lot, seems to be losing any importance. Almost everything of value seems to be depreciating. The lost, seems to take leaps like a naughty dolphin would leap over waves in the sea and then sink back, just so as to tease me, how the aftermath of that loss has disabled me to value the things I should value, and that are actually precious enough, dream like, icing on the cake like, dancing on a string like. And I seem to be losing any understanding of whatever it  is that I want. Do I want freedom? To float like a fallen leaf. Or do I want to settle like dust? That question, I am not able to frame it fucking right in my head. The older I grow, the more I lose my fixation with that question. The more time passes, the more I tend to confuse and repel you with what I write. Let me just sink in the high that is me right now. My toes, tiny balls of lust, are floating out my thirteen floor window. In the midnight air that I adore. And there is guitar in my ears. And I see so much I don't want to see, and hence, I am blinded. Chi·mae·ra. Chi·me·ra.