Lost inside my thoughts at night, silence is muted by the noise of my own mind. A deafening
silence.
Life and death, so fragile, such short moments. Why do we live by them? Time itself is
defined by life and death. By the rise and fall of the sun everyday.
How to define this I am going through right now? I don't feel alive nor dead. Time does not
seem to exist here and now, as the entire known world to me.
Like a caterpillar, trapped inside a cocoon, morphing myself to a butterfly, unaware of the
changes on the outside, of the perils awaiting for her on the outside as she gets out in the
search of the prettiest flowers on the path that leads to her partner, having to guess what
way to go.
Will I emerge as a butterfly or as a moth? Can one choose? Defined by genetics, sure. But
that does not apply here. Self awareness and focus are probably the defining factors in this
case. And if so, I shall emerge out of my cocoon as a beautiful Monarch, to cross the globe
after my soulmate, in a difficult but rewarding journey. Facing all forces of nature to find her,
and to finally be with her to the end of my short existence.
I don't want to leave this capsule as a moth, to hide in the shades and wonder through the
night. I want to emerge as one of her kind, a beautifully delicately coloured butterfly glowing
and reflecting every ray of sunlight that finds her delicate silklike wings.

Created by the image of Aphrodite herself,
The memory of her smile alone lights up the darkest side of my solitude.
The delicate perfection of the lotus flower is of no match to her eyes, maybe only comparable to the flapping wings of a lonely hummingbird carefully approaching the first of the dew covered flowers in  a sunny spring morning.
Evoking her name is enough to bring back memories of the first jasmine and cherry blossoms aroma on a hot spring morning on the Alhambra gardens.
There are no words to describe her absence, like a starless sky, a sunrise without the sound of the singing birds.
Knowing that memories of her will populate my thoughts on the day to come is what turns my nights bearable.
The possibility of meeting her in my dreams is my sleeping pill.
Living my days one at a time, moved by the hope that one day we meet, hold each other and hear from her lips that at least once I actually wondered through her thoughts.

For I’ve been lost and found, only to be lost again.
Freedom seemed brighter on the other side of the fence,
plans seemed simpler, hopes higher.
There was time, a chance to enhance.
The rope suddenly seems tighter again.
None said it would be easy
to let go of these knots that tie me to my own prison.
In the end my own knots are the hardest ones to loosen.

Light is now the measure of time
No clocks, watches, cell phones
All man made machinery are of no use
Civilization collapses within these walls
Treated like cattle, slowly losing grasp of civilized habits.
Grows inside anyone here a primal state.
In fear of taking the path to a medieval time
I lock myself inside my own utopia.
Like cavemen, hiding in a cave, crafting instruments out of pieces of bones,
Gathered around fires, playing games, measuring forces to take the alpha male position.
Why don’t I adapt? Have I gone too far down the yellow brick road? Should I have not tasted of the apple?
I won’t settle for less than the world. They seem to know not beyond the cave we live in.
Where has time gone? It seems to be going backwards
At a speed greater than the one of thoughts.
Is this an utopian apocalyptic future, or am I back to the stone age?

If life was made of certainties it would not be worth living, but right now, uncertainties drown me on an empty void. The only sure thing to expect right now is freedom, but even that is blurred by randomness of fate.

This one day to be remembered.
This one number to be recalled.
Seven are the capital sins,
sure I’ve fell into a handful of them,
and for them I’ve been paying my share.
All matters considered, grateful for the lessons and gifts.
Seven is also an important date.
One of both sorrow and blessing.
“And on the seventh God rested”
And on the seventh of may I was gifted the most beautiful creature.
And on the seventh day of the following month,
then came the punishment.
To take thy punishment and turn into lessons,
to appreciate my wealth, my health, myself.
To hope.
Tonight, the dawn of the one seventh day of the seventh month
Hoping.
For her to be thinking of me [us(also)] as I think of her,
while I think of her, of our day.
For this new trail to bring our paths to a crossing.
Hoping.
(That) I haven’t driven her away by my mistakes, my misdeeds.
For hers are my thoughts, prayers and heart.

Lost between words, buried by thoughts.
Tonight the distiller is dripping moonshine I drown my sorrows in.
The smoke of ****** marijuana mixed with tobacco takes over the gallery.
A handful of souls still awake. One thing in common we all have, the dream of freedom.
Killers, robbers, dealers, here one is no different than the next.
All government merchandise.
With the late hours of the night comes the silence.
As silence takes over, the hypnotic sound of the moonshine dripping from the distiller take one’s thoughts on a journey deep inside the mind.
Little by little the bottle fills up as the mind empties.
It is time the ghosts visit. Time to leave this place with them.
Cruising the known world in my mind. To be with the loved ones, at least on my imagination.
They seem to show up in waves. She is usually the first one. We talk, we dance, take long walks, but is never enough.
There is so much to know about her still.
Then come the friends, family. Eventually some actual ghosts even.
Slowly the moonshine and the writing give place to sleep.
The chance of meeting her in my dreams, moonshine inebriated.