On loss,

I had to face two losses of a different kind in less than two weeks. I cannot be sure, for it looks frustratingly difficult the mission of translating what is wandering, here and there, through the corners of my brain. I again cannot decide or be sure of what is inside, what wants to remain there, and what is fighting to see the lights, the white lights of this paper. Seeking clearness is a far-fetched call. I could never be clear and direct, but, I am, now, truly, teaching myself to be just that.

One – the loss – was to the hands of death, and it is final, obnoxious, and, of an immense devastating power. The other was of heart, of pleasure, of an allure excitement of being. I have translated, and will continue to translate how aching the first was to me, the loss of my art-alike Angel. But, now, my heart and hands are pushing me, hardly, to translate the last.

I, once upon a time, decided to love, boldly, but my feelings were not so taken care of. It shall be my own sin, that of greatening them. I should have kept in mind that feelings are cheap, and shall be spread easily towards whomever I know and whomever I don’t. But whenever one thinks their issues are of a mighty deal, and are of a sacred nature, then, and only then, the loss begins. I am a narcissist, and my narcissism is buried and hidden perfectly and deeply behind my skins and bloods. It ought to torture its owner, only , therefore I am shattered by the fact that my feelings were not so carefully nurtured.


They were tough days, and I had no choice but that of running, hurriedly, to his shelter. I knocked. the door was instantly opened. I haven’t asked for oxygen, food, a bed so that I sleep comfortably, or anything alike. I, instead, was looking for warmth, that of his being. I asked for his voice, touch, kindness and peacefulness. To my great misery, I, indeed, have tasted their holiness, purely. The host, he, himself, told me once: “he who tastes the pleasure will never have the courage to overcome it”. I ignored and continued my fleeting journey. It seemed as though it was endless, but, surprisingly, it had all the will to stab me, in the middle of my heart, by its very short life. A short warmth, a stolen artistic moment, a deep sort of pleasure, and a brief intimacy that, when all bound together, will shape the sculpture of the crippled relationship I had.

Despite the ill-natured human I am, I was ready to give, to share, to sacrifice, to dive, completely, into the lake of warmth I have finally found. But my willingness was slaughtered, long before it finds a secured place in reality, just like a pretty lover who prepared herself authentically to meet the one, but was raped in the middle of the road, long before seeing him. 
 My host, my handsome host did once, when we were sitting on a sofa closely next each other, play a song for me. The song held between its words, sadly, a message, an apologizing sort of message:
 “when cruelty becomes a kind of dignity,
 I must be cruel. Please forgive me, previously, for the cruel
 human being I am intending to be”.

He, then, was guided exactly by the lyrics; he followed and obeyed blindly, as if those words were one of the ten biblical commandments. I endured, endured, and endured once more, until the edges of the end became clearer to me. His cruelty altered him to somebody who couldn’t, by all means, accept the creature I was. And nothing comes after unacceptance but exile. I asked for exile myself. And he, for the second time and from a different angle, now, opened the door ,warmly.

I fled out of his realm, heartbroken, depressed, hurt, lost, and above all sick. It is said by the mouths of the dead that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger; I doubt. I am unlike she who entered the first time. I am less, for I left some of my parts, unintentionally, there. I don’t have a chance to bring them back, nor he would allow me to. I became less and not more because that is what loss was for; we are never powerful. We are humans, and lacks are what decide who we truly become.