I look in the mirror and gouge out its silver, capturing in my fingers its fleeing spark, that which blinds the surfaced sight. The light brandishes me, somehow knowing that with my embrace I will see the real reflection I long for. Stare it in the face, intervene within within, and finally ask those that should be asked without barriers or burdens to carry. Peeling out that which the touch knows not and hold the insides which in their selves are intangible. Yes, a conversation with, oh no, not even a name for it. Even labels holds in it a promise or otherwise seen as obligation; not even chains of etiquette requiring one to answer back when spoken to. It speaks only to itself, maybe silence is one of its language, I don't even know. I ask and I become one with it. No, not congruent to understanding, but a shared compassion of some sort.

I think I'm getting weary, hell, my complication in its existence hinder me from absolute answers. Everything is a hypothesis, an attempt, a flight. And again I say, I think I'm getting weary. Passion is still in its place as for those who deserve it, those worthy of my care, no doubt about that. What is boggling is that I know this is a part that keeps me alive, keeps me from dying. I am even sure it's cup as of now isn't running empty, not even half less, but why do I feel weary. Yes, I know, there are more that keeps me alive more than passion, those that go unnamed (as "passion" is only a fashioned name that seems apt as it holds no duty, at least duty to others but a duty only for the self. But who the hell really has the power over definitions? Wielding the power to grant symbols a meaning that all of the literate or even those that commune succumb to?), but the nameless other makes me ill. Maybe of its lack or otherwise...just something I blame for as I fall short of knowing.

What does cure a "soul"? Or how?

Now I run after some invisible panacea, one after the other, only to find temporary forgetfulness in its presence. Then when I close my eyes the darkness it is there. I am blind in the black but I know in my heart or the very core of me that I am facing the very core of me. Hah, repetition as I lie with it side by side, it echoes my words...or maybe I echo his/hers. I don't really know. Perhaps this is premature diagnosis of something that will in the future appear to be nothing at all. Maybe this is due to lack of sleep or the poison carbonated liquids I drink contain is starting to kick in.

Maybe, just maybe.

Or no, not really.

I can run to ends of different rooms, marking its walls to remind me if I have passed, but its endless halls I can't contain. The infinite with the finite running after it. Ah, they rhyme, what beauty, how puny. Now I know what Nineteen hundred chose to die with the Virginian, enormity and infinity opens you to endless possibilities. You face a whole city with endless roads that you don't know which to take. In a ship holds ends, in a hand there are ends, but where WE are in, a circle holding no corners. Even the end of our conversation, when the physique has withered and died, we still don't know if there exists an end for us. Maybe this realization caused this entire weary, if so then do WE also have an escape, rather a paradise or an illusion of it to make the trip worth taking? What is our piano? This realization is quite the same as what we know of immortality. Having no period in the sentence leaves space for endless words but defeats all meaning that can be held within. 'Special', that's what you miss when you have no period.

It gasps for air, I felt him/her chest rise. WE don't know what we're even saying, maybe it's the weariness.

Maybe, just maybe.

Or no, not really.

Yes, the answers we hold ,we hold but cannot decipher, a little red envelope to end all the exhaustion. Yes, we hold it sealed. We don't know what it will tell, if it will tell. Maybe the letter within will say the name of the chased culprit, maybe it will tell that the tire we feel doesn't even exist, just a top we ourselves spun to hold on our sight something, anything. Maybe there is no letter within.

Maybe, just maybe.

Or no, not really.



The light slowly retreats, a last glimpse showed me the weary. The light grows smaller and smaller, and at the last white dot...a smile