Whenever we put pen to paper, it’s a deliberate act of defiance. We know we’ll be defeated, and yet we stick our necks on the block just the same. When we take a step back and search inside ourselves, we know we’ll flinch at what we’ll see, but fuck it, it has to be done, because if it isn’t, all of this will fade away like yesterday’s dreams. And this state of non-existence that haunts. This kinky abyss that calls to us knowing it will have us whatever we do- what a bitch it is. And yet it’s all part of the dance. The dance where we flirt and tease the tits off of death while wanting so much to cling onto the warm embrace of life. Or is it that I’m trying to be all romantic again, y’know, like a poet or something? I have form for using my art to woo those that take my fancy, after all. But no, this is different. This goes deeper than merely trying to get laid, this is about the soul, and even though I’m not much of a believer in the man upstairs, I believe that humans can be beautiful, and I believe we can do things that transcend the realm of cold science. Beyond the trash of human culture, we can speak in such a way that erases the cheapness of our acts, and this above all else is proof of the magic we contain. It’s a slow dive. It’s a thankless task. This endless process of bleeding without knowing there’s a chance of redemption. Yeah, it’s pure lunacy, and yet we keep on doing it because, for the likes of us, it’s all there is. For the likes of us, this madness is as natural as the air we breathe, or the sadness in our aching bones. Such melancholy, such perfect Welsh despair. May it last until the day comes when all we can do is close our eyes knowing the time has come to be at one with the stars above- knowing we did it the right way.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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