I spend too much time in the shower in the morning dreaming of how it would be like, to breathe under water. So blue, and so dark, and so warm, and my hair frames my face and floats with a life of its own. The water will hold me the way a person desires to be held, a perfectly tight half-squeeze, with a little urgency, a little reassurance, and a little security. You are safe here. Time stops for a little, little, while. Perhaps for just a second. The sun beams a little harder. And even before I wake up, even before I open my eyes and rise, I can feel the gleaming heat, brush it's lips against my skin for just a little while longer.

My shoes have no friction. The soles are worn-out, marble-smooth and I ice-skate on the puddles of yesterday night’s dazzling drizzle, wobbly knees, white knuckles, clumsy dances, near-trips and tightened grips on anything and anybody near enough to anchor me.

Anything can be lyrical, I don’t know why it matters anymore. Words, words... You could have written all these words too. The things that are left unsaid, that cannot be said, feel so much stronger. All the lingering absences and heavy silences which points to vacant irrepressible presences and which overwhelms, hand over mouth, an individualized pain, the only originality left, too bitter, too mocked, to be robbed away. You sense me but you can’t touch me. You can’t put a name on me, can’t beat me down with rationality, can't own me.

Sometimes I still feel like everything in my life is just a mere distraction, a string of heartbeat moments in the here and now and never again. There are some who say that we are nothing, that life is essentially nothing, that the only thing that keeps us alive is our instinct for survival. The other camp can be annoyingly cheery and merry on days when you wake up depressed and you have to resist the urge to slap their bright happy faces when they tell you that baby, life is everything! Baby, baby, maybe life is anything you want it to be. Why is that so bad a thing? Whatever it is, what if you only get one shot at life, whatever the hell it really is? Too little time to think and think and burst at the seams. So shush now, shush. Live, live, live. We do too much talking. We feel too much and do nothing about it. Maybe there is no such thing as a mistake. Maybe life is supposed to be a mess and why is that so bad a thing?

I have a friend who told me his natural state is that of moroseness. I thought that was wonderful, because it meant that the simplest, tiniest, trivial details, would suddenly be given wings to whisk you off in a cloud of surprises.