The moon was shining bright. A hand raised from the cemetery. On the night of the walking dead, I heard a knocking on my door.
It was a zombie. A macabre resurrection. Just a shadow of what it used to be.
Swallowing my utter panic, I embraced it, in hopes that time would guide the way out of the horror and that cheap Stephen King movie would turn into a mild romantic comedy.
Instead, I was sent to outer space.
Gasping for oxygen outside the atmosphere, I became the lost space man, as the Earth posed as the long lost past, forming an ironically harmonic mix of messy, uneven, heterogenic, but beautiful pieces. A home, slowly fading in the darkness of my vision turning black as I lost my consciousness.
For the first time, it looked beautiful.
Sometimes, I guess, things only make sense when gazed at from a great distance – so great that it is out of reach, for good.
Still, I held hands with the firmest grip my strength would be able to, and, at the same time, played every symphony, just to grow awareness of my feelings, of what I was, of all I had to offer.
To no avail.
I was drowning in that infected love.
My soul was tainted by that infected love.
On a last, desperate endeavour to heal the infection, we adventured into the wilderness of the concrete jungles.
And that, my friend, was my last, most enduring mistake.
Among violent punches on the core of my self-esteem, I was sent to nowhere in sight.
That is when I found myself trapped on a time bubble that took me to one's glorious past I had a fairly little knowledge about.
A past with candies and fresh young blood galore. With no inch left to explore.
A past where the beauty flowed freely like a soft silk veil, caressing the nude bodies of the nameless youth, the young rebels, another troupe of extremists.
A past where I did not still exist... Framed on this present time, where I -- I no longer existed.
So I fled to the daughter's room, where the silence meets the deepest darkness.
Where I could hide from the voracious monsters haunting along and weep in peace.
My temple to keep distance from the Great Wall and its heartbreaking sight.
In there, I – at long last, for the first time – found the meaning of every song, of every teardrop, of every cry I ever heard in the height of my lukewarm empathy, of my immature and selfish way of caring of others.
I felt vulnerable and human, once again.
And as if my past had finally declared war, all the pain and suffering I may have caused seemed to be bouncing back in the bloodiest vendetta.
You were the lieutenant of the infantry. The bullets you fired were hitting me in the very core.
In the daughter's room I agonized, dying not by the blood running out my body, but by the hope vaporing out of my spirit.
Your love did not find me in the daughter's room.
I have seen your love is now strolling around the Dark Velvet Feral Art Gallery.
Your love has long left me.
I fled from this infected love you gave me.
Whilst rushing back home, all I saw was complete emptiness after a soft fog of the saddest grey.
In the alley of the unspoken words, deep in my undergrounds, there were just corpses and drunken men, gazing into the darkness, finding no point in any further movement, overpowered by the misery.
Their eyes contemplated the infiniteness of the nothing.
All the screams inside were promptly silenced; for nothing made sense; for it was all void; it was all gone, with my appetite.
My feelings twirl and tangle, making a million knots in my heartstrings, so that I can’t quite tell anything apart.
Is it envy for the glory or love for the glorious?
Is it your presence or your absence?
I can't see any answers, I can’t see any reasoning.
I left the battle for good.