Away From Home

Mon dieu, je vous manque.
In a mood flux, lately. Bad one.
It started out of the blue, with no early warning.
Yesterday is something i forgot.
Today, is me realizing that home is not here, now; that i was still alone; and ego is the best companion i’ve been having, also sweetest enemy.
Being delusional is sometimes useless, as much as comical. I felt like a clown in a show where i don’t belong: inexist. Unreal. Invisible. Broken. Useless.
I talk. I think. But, i can’t do. I am useless.
I thought i had a friend. I was wrong. Friend is not something i can posess. They live. They’re free man on their own. Not opressed people. Not purchasable good i could play with. Okay, some is (purchasable and playable). But, actually, you don’t own them whole. You can’t. People got mind that walks. And soul that wanders. Free man fight for freedom. Free man hates the idea of being a private property, though they love having privacy.

Mankind are one mystery. While the Earth is another. Universe brings you surprise-in-a-box ocassionally, though sudden. Secretly, though visible. Virtuos, though cracked.
There’s always some things behind things. There’s more than meets the eye. There’s more below the tip of an iceberg. You don’t predict all by the first blink. You should stop and see. Rest and glare. Pause and observe. The mystery is really, truly enjoyable.

I’m not home, now. Not the one comfortable. Not the one giving me calm; serenity. I missed my home up there. My somebody up there. It’s hard to went through this phase of being human. Of being a being who got a broken trouble dispenser surrounding. The being appreciate the joy; the lesson. But, can’t he confess it when he’s really tired? He’s just telling the genesis that he missed him (or her).

It’s now not a crossroad that lies beyond him. It’s before that: a foggy forest. His eyes staring at the sky, while legs rooted on the ground. He put his mind on something. Not a very big thing. Only real. He’s been too much tired thinking about dream. Dream is not a thing he should be thinking, i think. He should enjoy it while it last. Every inch. Every bit. Every pixel.

I’ve been blabbering too much, it’s not specific anymore. It’s personal writing, anyw. It heals, it helps, it relieves. So, why not?
The desperate whoreboy doesn’t end his blasphemy here.