I stopped writing some time ago, it softly faded like dust swept into a gentle breeze. Time passing in such quick fluidity that it pushed and hurried me from one day to another. After a while they all began to look the same; each morning, each glance at the bedside clock, each starless night that I never ventured out into. 

Things woke my soul in this space, but they weren't enough to tear me from life. They are a desperate voice, screaming behind a thick glass wall. If I sit long enough in silence I can hear them, almost hidden in the growling wind. 

Books awoke me, and films. Some dreams stirred me too, but I always stoop back to the same low. Hungry, so hungry for adventure that I am malnourished; weak. There have been moments when I am so overcome by the beauty of life that my face winces. Mostly, I feel disconnected from all that beauty, like I'm watching it on tv. It is not tangible. It has no taste, no weight. But when it's real, it is overwhelming. It is like nothing I've ever felt before. They are fleeting, my God, sometimes I can barely catch them, but when they happen I know they are real. 


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