I think it's time enough to mark this one down as another unexplained mystery in my life.

I miss fearlessness. I miss risking everything for what I feel.
I can't be completely foolish now, can't close my eyes to the things they've been opened to - can't pretend things don't hurt or things don't hold significance for myself and others.

Can I be honest here? I can;t remember the last time I have been. The thought alone makes me smile. I can't remember the last time I straight-talked about how I feel.
And it is not that I ever speak the distortion of fact, it's simply that I have discovered new languages, newer and cleverer ways to say how I think and feel and it's quite a regression into old ways to go back to vunerabilty.

Yeah. That was what truth meant before - that was the ultimate expression of my courage; no shields, no weapons, no holding back. Absolute vunerabilty.

That girl - she is such a stranger, that strong one. I see her like I ever knew her name, or was her. I cannot walk beside her, let alone look her in the eye. I am a coward. She is too strong for me. I cannot feel; cannot allow it.

I am alone in the house. I started writing because I am not brave enough to be myself like I used to. Now there's Ego, now there's the fear of what people will think or define me as. I used to be so free alone - I used to display it as proudly as a soldier battle scars. I AM ALONE gave me invincibility. Now I slide closely to self-pity and despair. Gosh, now I feel embarrassed to be alone, as if it makes me less than others could think of me.

But I was thinking of somebody - and I think it's fitting to say some Body and not some One.
Yes, there was some Body that connected with mine a fortnight ago. It's so faraway now; it doesn't exist, and I knew that everything would escape me as everything has done before but I pushed on because I suppose a shadow of the girl is still inside me - however distant she's become.

Only, she will not remember. I choose for her.

I went through the motions knowing they would not last but thinking 'the show must go on', the illusions must continue to revolve, what else is the purpose of my being here in this body with these thoughts and feelings and these various means to express myself?

This is my youth. This is my time. I must do my best to understand and live this dream to its conclusion.

It just occured to me that I will not tell the story. I really thought I would, thought I'd be able to share a piece of my life like I've done countless times before so unabashedly.

Ha, I proclaimed 'the duty of art is to expose the secrets of human experience' some time last year, I think.
This year, this month, today I don't really feel like an artist, and to tell you the truth I haven't felt so for a very long time.

It's been sad to discover that life is not as mysterious as it first seemed to be to me, and more so people. There are no complications, no hidden things to be discovered or revealed - and even when they are they are sometimes not things [feelings] to be desired, honestly.

And so I don't want to know anymore - and I won't. I don't want to sit down and analyse, I don't want to figure things out, I don't want answers.

Still not telling the story :-)

A poem would ask questions, perhaps. A poem would shine out as a beacon in the world to say 'Dou you GET this?' or 'Do you FEEL this?' more bluntly than a dialogue would. And maybe answers would stream back towards me, mostly pointing at the obvious?

Oh, my gosh, I can't be dum anymore!!! It's not cute. It was dum to be fearless. It's time enough to be afraid.

Oh, well. I'm not alone in the house anymore.
I've moved from one room to another during an interim and I'm about to switch on a distraction from these so-called feelings, play a DVD or something. I told you, I get embarrassed to be seen alone now, even for the shortest while; I suppose every Body with some Body in whatever relationship or form is an adversary to my loneliness now, and I must keep face because I have lost the courage to be anything else.

That girl, how could I ever have BEEN her?

But I forget myself. I don't really want to know now.
Nope.

So yes, there will be no story to tell, no details; sordid or glorious, about my latest encounter.
I am not inspired; I am crushed, I loose faith.

The romantic dies, the artist lives on, maybe. It was simply time for the separation to become absolute?

The romance in the world, however, will undoubtedly go on. And I will indulge all of my senses in the foreign emotions that must become eventually unnatural to me. Soon everything will be One Stranger, soon I will not identify but touch through a looking glass.

And honestly? I CAN"T WAIT!
I am done with this.