If I were to fall in love, please, bash in my brains and hack off my balls. If you were to find me smitten and talking of tenderness, rub detergent into my eyes and force-feed me bleach while slicing off my lips with a shard of broken glass. Did anyone ever break the ice when loved up and infatuated with the faded remains of what has already been? Did anything of any merit come about at the hands of someone content and ready to give it all up for an easy way out? So many rage for a month or two, and then just like that, they fade away. They claim to be in possession of a voice- of a vision– but in the beat of heart, they’ll blend in with the machine that moments earlier they claimed to despise. You see it all around you; broken lovers creating such exquisite beauty while struggling to breathe all alone and ready for drowning, only they get better, and then it’s over. Go back to bed. Go rest your weary head. You say that you’re for real, that you mean every word, but at the earliest opportunity, you’ll leave it behind. You’ll do it without realising, and then one day when you’re old and worn out without so much as a footprint to your name, you’ll realise how you wasted the fire inside- that in those hours of glorious pain when you shone brighter than you ever did in your entire life- you allowed comfort to reign. Life shouldn’t be a postcard, and nor should it be a celebration of flesh. It should be a search- a continuous seeking of all that remains hidden. The weak don’t see, which is why they either give up or don’t even start in the first place. Where we see potential, they see only empty space. Where they shirk at talk of imagination and faith, we strive to give form to the energy that calls to us from behind the veil.