Can be a bitch 

We fall in love with someone when we are lost. When we fall in love the new space between us consumes everything else and we are not lost anymore. Then one day we wake up and realise that this is a trip too and that we are still lost. And then we decide to part and live by ourselves , lost in ourselves and our egos. Until one day we realise that now we know both sides of the story and we belong to neither.

Blank canvas
Black ink
A dot moves slowly
In a line 

I have sat by night beside a cold lake

And touched things smoother than moonlight on still water,

But the moon on this cloud sea is not human,

And here is no shore, no intimacy,

Only the start of space, the road to suns." - Trans Canada by F.R. Scott

Not a day goes by without thinking of you
I don't know what this means
But i miss you
I miss words of magic and dreams
I miss the protection
I miss the romance
I have distanced myself enough
Perhaps i am not the same

I am on the train again, i keep thinking of writing to you
I thought of writing a long long letter addressed to no one in particular and to everyone.
I have filled pages and books with letters to you, for more than a year now, full of confusion, but would stop myself before sending, wondering why would you want to read it? You might expect something else, words of love, not of confusion, so i let it be, so pages remain, perhaps torn away, lost and tucked away at forgotten places, filled with doodles, cut up words and rash lines.

Nothing

Nothing

messed up piece of shit disintegrating into many pieces
dead

I have a smoke but no matchbox
This happens to me me often
then some ten similar things would happen
and i shatter and become fragments of confusion

Its not black out there

i love space
interstellar space travel
all the white holes and the black holes
all the alien possibilities
ans strange frequencies
and the great expanse
and maybe perhaps an illusion after all

the great unknown
its not black out there

Evening sky
and lonesome monkey

I was five and he was six
We rode on horses made of sticks
He wore black and I wore white
He would always win the fight

Bang bang, he shot me down
Bang bang, I hit the ground
Bang bang, that awful sound
Bang bang, my baby shot me down

Bang Bang- Nancy Sinatra

Control

I have been told i think too much.
Its all in a circle.
Probably.
Maybe.

In too much control.
Confusion.
Not good.