These cold, winter days where everything feels like the past. As the dying light says goodbye, I think about an ex-lover and the moments that existed between us. When I die, so shall they, and it will be as if they never even occurred. Such breathless intimacy, forgotten and discarded like it was unimportant. Those traces of wonder; those footsteps in the darkness- how soon they slipped into yesterday. It’s now my job to collect them, and to preserve their meaning. If I don’t, they’ll get lost among the junk, never to be seen again. Beauty deserves more, even if it has been tainted by others. It’s what separates us from the mob; from the ugly ones as they devour all in sight. From time to time love comes around. It shines for a while, and then it passes. I write to preserve such fleeting miracles. It’s a lonely job, but it’s one that allows me to right my wrongs. If I can travel back to when there was harmony and glimpse the love in your eyes, then I can save what we had from being eaten by oblivion. If I can put down into words the mysteries of your smile, then maybe we can cheat death. To believe in principles in a world as cheap as this is a foolish thing. It’s a plastic kingdom that’s for sure, and woe betides anyone who dares to express what it means to be human. Everyone wants so desperately to paint a picture of themselves. Happy, confident, focused. Driven to succeed and hungry for success. We replicate. We mimic. We’re capable of such intricate acts, yet we trade them for acceptance. The crowd is a useless thing; it’s a false ocean swimming with machines and crippling ideologies. It’s an illusion that feeds on our insecurities, yet to be weak is the greatest gift of all. Embrace your frailties. Nurture your silence. Close your mind to all but the sound of your beating heart, and disappear into the night.