Crossing this road.

Going through a year is like crossing a road, which may either be stirring with throngs of people or still with gusts of whistling wind. I love crossing roads at night, when from the vehicles standing still behind the horse-lines, all the lights radiate upon me and dispel the surrounding darkness. Within such short-lived moments, I feel protected and indestructible. Although to think that they stop just for me to cross the road is an presumptuous illusion, the impression is usually so strong that it contributes to enhance a strange sense of belonging and alleviate all the sorrows. Fear and weariness seem to be pushed back momentarily. All that is left is me with my unspoiled, empty, enigmatic universe, and the lights. It may sound meaningless and trivial, but it actually keeps me crossing other unknown and cryptic roads with continuous cravings for such feelings to come back over and over again. It is not that lights are rare, but darkness is overwhelming. So familiar and comfortable is darkness in me that it smiles most benevolently and sympathetically, knowing that I always do a good job at enshrouding it in secrecy. My heart, without windows or doors, is so somber that it makes all I ever sense equally affected, so lifeless that no one ever finds a way to get inside and so hopeless that no one ever tries. Time after time, I push people further and further away because I come to realize what precious things we give and take are pains. Pains come and go. More pains come and go. Pains never stop coming and going. 

You are just another one of hundreds of strangers on this one intersection. You never know me. And it took me a second to make it out that you will never be capable of understanding what I think or feel. Even I have spent so long a time just to reorganize the fringe of my own miscellaneous chaos. The fact that what we do best together is being two perfect strangers is inevitable yet tormenting. And yet; I can't help getting my hopes up. I guess my sensibility deserted me somewhere along the road. You are even more like me than myself, now that I can finally fathom what Catherine Earnshaw experienced. You are just like another living me, a kaleidoscope invites perceptions and judgments strong enough to admit their own belongingness. I am in love with you, right now. I do not feel betrayal or change, I'm just coming closer and closer to the other self of mine which turns out to be really existing in that distant, unscrupulous, disgusting outer world. Even though my nature is convictions in change and change itself. Even though I may not love you any longer in a few years to come, months, days, or right after I finish spilling out all of this, because I change everyday, every hour, every minute, every moment. Existence of mine and yours and theirs and any human-beings' or creature's and even things' are all ephemeral, don't you see? What feelings, what you that are deserving enough, what true love that is righteous and passionate enough to counteract this peculiar particularity of existence? Even though you may not belong with me. Even though all of that, what I want to scream out (but remaining pantomimic, though) and what you ever need to know is that, at this very moment, I am in love with you. This heart, embraced by darkness, disturbed with all its unseen pains and scars, this beating polyhedron with diverse surfaces of loneliness, precariousness, pretentiousness, unwillingness, stubbornness, hostility, instability, absurdity, insanity, stagnancy, negligence, embarrassment or even degeneration, is chronically in love.

A four-leaf clover means all happiness. I have always been secretly wishing you were my four-leaf clover, among all clovers on this enormous meadow of eternal greenness, among all souls in this universe of ignorant distances. But it does not matter any longer or ever ever more. Sweet honey is still in its jar. My favorite movie is still in the player. Brushes are still dipped in colors. The pea tree planted to celebrate old memories is still growing up. A cactus still means Come and take me away. A waltz is still twirling in splendid notes. Dewdrops falling from the leaves still come back to its origin. Sun lights still hatefully shine the Earth and rains are still soulless unless one puts some soul of herself in. People are going towards where they are supposed to be. Melancholy still does not seem to present because of its complete silence. Everything is still in its place, albeit decisions were made and we have already started to pursue our separate ways. That's why on that way onward, with the wind into the infinite nothingness I send my four-leaf clover, and wish you to find and have one for yourself.