The charade is over. The mask is too heavy and cumbersome. I am throwing it away tonight. It has once again become important for me to write. I remember that I once threw God away and I have not gone back to it ever. I confess. I cannot threw my writing away. It is a survival exercise.
I used to inhabit a little beautiful world where a few of my friends flitted by. They brought in some parchment for me to write poems on. They brought me bottles of ink and lots of love. I had an imaginary love. It was firewood. The phoenix has gone through so many phases and has evolved into a bird of paradise. Life might be happy. Yet, life is empty. I think, nay, I feel that the earlier world was more beautiful even though I was less happier than I am now. I don’t like happiness. It is not my natural state of being. It is a form of imposition.
I want my sad, moonlit, bleeding world back. I want all my dreams back. I want my imaginary home and hearth. I want my phoenix raiser back. I want my hibernating dreams to resurrect and jostle around me like apparitions of a sweet-smelling past. I want love back. I want my desolation back. I want my writing to be my refuge. I want my escapism back. I want my innocence back. I want my vulnerability back. I want my intense, melancholic, solitary existence back. I want my fantasies back.
I want the moon children and meaninglessness. I want the absurdity. I want the broken souvenirs and the dry leaves. I want the wilting fragrance of a dying rose. I want breathing. I want rain. I want my conviction. I want the extravagance in imagery. I want the death and the resurrection. I want all my wants back.
I sing a requiem to reality and I resuscitate my dreams tonight. My exotic, impossible, flamboyant, exaggerated dreams are returning to me this moment. They are flitting in through the windows like little fire flies. I wish to never die again.