There's so much inside me, suffocating, drowning, trying to come to the surface. I don't think I know how to take it all out. Writing has never helped me, and I will say that it's pretty much the same for everything else as well. Now that summer has long ended, and to say, on a quiet note, a lot has to be written. I want to write about how summer tolerated me and how the gossamer of silence veiled my flesh like a bride. I want to write about stop signs when I turn around and search for my father and when I am in the hallway trying to find my sanity in between the lines on the floor. Sometimes, this is what God and I talk about, about writers and how they patronize sins. He laughs, He laughs at their misery, and he laughs at me too, particularly when I am longing for a home. I spend hours drawing lines on my body to make him understand why I kneel before him, but he denies it. He says that my penance is grief's way of mocking him. Sometimes, I feel like he's always running, running from the fact that he's my God. To be able to write is another tragedy of my existence because then when I sin, it always seems like I am buttoning God's tuxedo. Yet, I do not call myself a writer, but I do dream of my father in technicolor. In fact, when I walk into a room alone, I see everything in technicolor, seductively vivid mosaics of mundaneness rectifying my ordinary flesh by making its way into it, slitting it open with so much precision it almost feels like art, an art into nothingness, an art as deceiving as the nights, an art absolutely whimsical, and all because grief, pain and longing creates a sepulchre out of these words for all of the infidelity that lies within.
*Feeling is not the appropriate word to define this sadness. It is something more real, It is debaucherous and yet at the same time so pure and fidelious that one can simply walk on burning coal with bare feet, a wine glass half filled with God in one hand and in other a sachet filled with fine pieces of happiness stitched to the wrist as if pain is nothing more than a religion itself. But a poet, he is too much drenched in his vanity that he'd light up his cigarette using those burning coal pieces pretending to be the alm for death.*