As we loop through existence; taking our goals into the future, trying to be perfect, to be a genius, putting outlines in the dimensions of tragedies that have a perfect sense of death. Humans are going by, one by one, hating everyone in every form and tracing our faults in the lies that resolve nothing but make us comfortable in the pursuit of meaning. There is a lost sense of feeling other people’s suffering because we are all good at looking at the abyss while crewing a mouthful of glass, and just staring at the reflection of different paths that could convey.

Yes, in one word if I have to say, it is hard. The passing of time, seeing traces of the past, being sorry for my drug use and exhibiting a false sense of right and wrong to make myself sane. If not sane, then I am a crazy man whose last breath loses its importance when trying to build a melody of symphonies to keep a piece of myself left with me, to be somehow needed. But after some time that also loses its flavour and all that's left is the faint idea of whom we are in the form of justice and labelling it with different layers of talks we speak to ourselves.

It scares me, it does, to look into my own eyes. It is not a phase of artistic phrase to get applauded or anything significant, it is looking at the truth of who I am, an evil existence and a mocking clown that breaks everything apart. I killed myself on one of those nights, to be beheaded in the face of my existence. But it didn't stop there, it gave me clues of what is left of me in the manner that I keep on jogging the long road of tragedies that meets the boundaries of its last traced question; which didn't matter at all and a small adjustment was made to my destiny where it showed me all the lies I told myself, in the midst of the clock ticking, it's telling me to try harder the next time around, but it's too late now. My knees have a joint action of giving up and a white flag appeared out of nowhere.

Have I surrendered?

Am I going to die?

Will I take my own life?

Then again I woke up the next morning to feel the breeze and the trees and felt like a pathetic loser who couldn't die. Yet to be at ease for a little while, and then stopped trying to figure things out. There's the tree that I first planted, and a loose sight of the taxi driver looking for a passenger. A red car with its magnificent engine, the souls of thousands floating around to be with everyone all at the same time and the death of a part of me. The single mom scolding his son for his lack of sense, the alcoholic's night hasn’t ended, the moon is still visible, the child who I once thought is my friend has left and a woman in her late 40s is still shining.

Maybe it is not a bad day to keep on living...