In the middle of the night, when the world stops spinning, I sit at my desk and put words onto paper that might be good or perhaps terribly bad. It’s not until morning when the truth is revealed, and I either smile or light a cigarette out of frustration. Remembering days from my past, I still feel the love of an embrace, and the passion of a bitten neck under the blanket of darkness. These things live beneath my skin, and although they’re kept hidden, the energy they exert is constant. It bubbles all of the time. Reading old journal entries from 2009, things are much the same as they were, only now I’m more aware of what I seem to be doing. Solitude is vital, as vital as the air I breathe and the wine that passes my lips. Most of those I knew back then are settled down, but not I. It’s not through lack of trying, but the older I get, the more things fall into place, and the more it seems that my path was never meant to resemble those of whom I once called my own. Of all the things that could’ve been, I’ll never know. Of what could’ve become of my life and those I once loved, there’s just no way of saying, but loved they were. In my own peculiar way, they meant so much to me even though it appeared so differently. There have been so many silent confessions; so many unspoken apologies left to wash away with the rain. It hurts that this is what I’ve become, but there was no other way. It wasn’t my choice to make. Picturing a stairway to the moon, an albatross spreads its wings and takes me up into the clouds. Flying through the night sky and leaving it all behind, I wave goodbye to all that I’ve lost while laughing at what has yet to come.