I think

The loveliest fear of all

Is the fear of not being able

To love with all you heart


Over and over again

A worried mind whispers silently, inside of an abysmal hole he calls his mind.

Echoing inside of the hole are noiseless chatter, and a horde of squealing swine.

He hangs on to a thread, he is consumed by fright.

For aeons he’s been trapped in darkness, and had forgotten the brightness of The Light.

And though he strives to fight the darkness inside, its choke on his neck continues to suffocate him each night.

But if he were to surrender tonight, he would forever lose the grace of Light.

And so he continues his struggle, giving his all, and with all his might.


He locks himself inside of a small room with no intention of going out. What does he intend to do by doing this? Nothing. At least nothing that I know of. He had lost any sense of purpose in his life. We don’t know if he ever had any purpose in life at all. What we do know that he is in there right now, probably suffering from some sort of a neurotic episode.

I can hear him grinding his teeth together from behind this door. He’s definitely going through something right now, and he never tells anyone. He never goes deep into details. That’s just the way he is, seemingly closed off, but at the same time he’d tell you lengthy stories about his life and all the shit that happened to him. Maybe he’s just lonely, and that’s the way he copes with his loneliness. But then, why would he try to close himself off from the rest of humanity either? I don’t know. No one knows. All we know is that he’s just like that. He’s either too cowardly to, I don’t know, convey whatever the fuck is lingering inside of him.

He’s opening the door now.

We are

I’m heading there.

I can feel it now.

I’m heading there slowly, surely,

I’ll be arriving some time soon.

And it’s not only me,

But also you.

It’s not only me, but everyone,

We’re all heading there.


We’re all heading there.

On our own time, at our own paces.

A note

I am tired.

That needs to be put forward first, the fact that I am tired, I am exhausted from all the things that I didn’t do. It doesn’t make any sense at all, it’s fucking stupid to even come out with a sentence such as that, but that’s exactly how I feel. It hurts, and the pain is starting to wait to me.

I’ve been waiting for something for so long. I don’t know what it is exactly that I’m waiting for, maybe it’s inspiration, or maybe just simple motivation, a will to do, a will to write. But it never comes around. I’ve come to the point that it’s utterly useless to even wait for something like that, for something I don’t even know what. I just need to fucking write. Be it shit, be it crap, be it garbage, it’s what I can do and I need to do it. There’s this sort of a calling, that I thought, I had towards writing or whatever it is this is, but that calling, or whatever it is, is lost somewhere inside of me. Where is it?


How is a man to carry another’s heart?

To make room for another’s burdens?


How does one claim to be so generous to give away one’s very being?

To bring down the sky to the very depths of the abysmal trenches of the ocean?


If you hold my hand long enough,

I’ll give my arms and legs to you.

If you embrace my body long enough,

I’ll present my whole being to you.

If you kiss me and leave me to die,

I’ll pray for your health every day.

If you pray for me when I’m weak,

I’ll write you letters of love so sweet.

If you do believe in what I say,

I’ll surrender my heart to you.

If you so choose to break it apart,

If you decide to smash it to pieces,

If you think it’d be better that way,

I’ll still live to tell the tale.

I am alive today,

And maybe tomorrow too,

But I don’t know what I’ll do,

If we turned into a caliphate.