At times, I feel as though I have not existed prior to this immediate moment. Often enough, when my despair reaches its paroxysm, I dissimulate myself from the person I was yesterday or yesteryear that everyone thought I was --- or at least I thought I am. My past is seamlessly skidding down into a dreamlike state of reverent musings, where there is no particular order binding it to my ego, that is, the I. It's as if the instances of passionate memories I've accrued over a lifetime, were only a product of simulation feigned by an omnipotent being that has no regard for the lot of men. Consequentially, this has often severely impeded my belief in my own existence as I incrementally become forgetful of my own being -- I am left asking If I am not me, then who am I? Am I any more unique than that inanimate rock over there? Or that mighty tree over there? Is my existence then only a possibility for contingency, that any attempts at personal reform is no more than a farce as much as it is a means to live authentically?
For a while, when my mind loiters about in the sea of nauseous existential drama, I cease to be. And in those odd moments, I forget about you --- and what it felt like to stare blankly at your soul whilst losing myself within those dark eyes, pale complexion, chapped lips, swell hair, and petite bearing.
Honey, you're all that makes these street lights a spectacle at night, you're all that makes it worthwhile to walk in ungodly hours. And with a stubborn hope in my heart, I look for your silhouettes in these empty coffee shops barren of your grandeur. I yearn only that you let me traverse the infinite depth of your heart and mind, and without reservations, I shall eternally adore you 'between the shadow and the soul' within this convoluted world of mine.
Let the questions of existence chafe into oblivion, but to live without having known you is a step closer to perdition.
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