Letter 12

In the absence of more precise days,
today I still believe it is March, even if it is April...
Monday...
My room...
11:00 p.m.


The cognition of these moments...
The suffrage of unforgiven hours...
The bored fear of punishment on the corner of the living room...
Me, scaring my dreams with destructed fears and unfinished dreams...
I move myself...
I supplant this desiere, I take off your clothes,
wishing to be inside of you...
I feel cold...I miss you...
I find your absence weird even when you are present...
I don´t know what I do, or what I control...

I have lost the nature of such envolvement even if at uncountable times I have wished to be beyond of what we could live and commune.

I want your love, your security, your mature and mendicant mouth...
Later, quite later, your sex...
I don´t know the order no even the sequence,
there is a diffuse rhythm, confused, distant...

I don´t know...

There are catharses and insights(in fact, I don´t know to deal with them yet(in fact, I don´t know to deal with them yet, I only know to understand their nature and origin.).

So, I imagine you...
I want you to take me with you...
To embrace me and forget the lost time, but htis is not and invitation anymore, it is really this discomfort, this evidence that the lost time disturbs me a lot...
Teach me the way...
I feel lost...

Help me not because it could sound as a request of help, but because you understand that I need to meet myself again, to discover it as well.
Such discovery is made of enchantments and disenchatments, a trip to the unknown. Bigger and more intense of all other empty searches.

I don´t want anymore the artificial enchantment of banal love which ends up in the emptiness of hungers satiated by casual and contemporanean sex.
This is the way through which I understand yours and mine out of measure and desperate life.

We are what many would say: derisive and irreprehensible dreamers.
I know nothing about the love recieved, only about the given and understood love.
I am frighteningly symptomatic in relation to love and its thereats, and deceits are seen and lived every day.

I would. I want only to live the grandiosity of such love, and if it is not possible, then may each one in loneliness and ignorance, go on what I limit to call life, of this rout and insolit existence which exalts and propagates itself in cloudy days and dark in superfluities.

See you at the inevitable encounter,
Yours

Letter 12
The Enchantment of the Chaos.
Made and written for a unique person in my life: E.N.
Gilbert Antonio.