If I only would let go. There are so many more mes who want out. I do not refer to them as mere dreams and desires because they are all so distant and diferent from each other they deserve to be treated as multipicities on their own. Weak-willed, insecure, and sometimes hypersensitive, I have been nursing myself with the sight of the ruins I should no longer hold on to; nostalgia so alluring I completely detach myself from everything and everyone, so sweetly enamored of my own retellings which start to mutate from precious little stars in my sky to unnatural, foul ruminations aching and twisting down there, in the depths of my ocean.

Yes, there are many things that have died inside of me, but I do not have to go on an eternal mourning for them. Of one thing only I am sure, my sole source being my indefectibly resilient intuition. I believe the essence does remain; a fire that may have been only feigned its decease, ever since it was exposed to the world. Mind and body caged it when it seemed necessary, in a cruel but loving manner. It might be considered as a work of pure narcissism, by which I will admit I am constantly enchanted. The trick is to unveil those ruins as lies, immediately crafting new fictions that pact with this lost and found essence of mine.