She was the most dangerous kind of liar. The type that releases sweet words to melt on your tongue;
it's fizzles into a sulphuric acid the moments it's ingested. What a coward. Villains seem to meet their downfall during long spiels but at least they had the guts to be honest.
She silently fed you the kind of termites that ate at your flesh because she was bored, but she didn't even enjoy the way they slowly destroyed. She just stared blankly. He remember the first time seeing a hint of emotion. It was the excitement that flashed in her eyes when he said no. It ignited some sort of fire in her; a challenge. He'd walk as far as he could but she'd always make her way to find him and stand close enough to breath down his neck. And he tried to find help and tried to stand in public places but it was like nobody wanted to get involved if it wasn't their business. And have you ever noticed. Only when it's a matter of opinion does anyone have the ability to suddenly speak up. No one wants to do anything when there's action involved. Things are much easier in theory.

The first requires a different understanding of many things—a place to stand, a way to see, and the abililty to comprehend events that happened in a billionth of a billionth of a second, but my first answer would be that I would like to have been there at the crack of creation. There was nothing… then… there was. What must that have been like?

I realize that is perhaps not what you had in mind, but there is another very special moment that I would have liked to have been present for. This would require the voice of a narrator because I’m sure the event itself would not have been noteworthy to an observer. I can’t imagine how it happened—maybe it was a growing feeling that had been stirring for thousands of years, maybe it came in a rush, but there still must have been a moment—maybe she looked up from a campfire and gazed into the stars, maybe he stopped while chipping flakes of a stone and looked at his hand… or maybe a child stopped in the seafoam and drew in the wet sand. Regardless, there must have been a moment, an instant, when the first human (or perhaps it was something not-yet-human) looked at the world with self-awareness thought something like “I am”—and everything else followed from that moment. There must have been that point in time when we became self-aware and conscious, and there is no more important event in the story of what we are.

There is one more ... kind of like the first ... I would very much like to be at the end, when the last star blinks out and everything is finished. I know events like that far exceed our comprehension, but we can still dare to dream, right? What else are we, if not a race of dreamers?

Write something for me my lunatic poet. Be it a song or just a short sticky note. Write something to make me smile or cry or laugh. Put pen to paper and make me feel something. Scribble in a moleskin read some Dickens and Blake. Listen to Yesterday’s pupil and write to me about how they inspired you to write some more. Or if you prefer write your own music and let that inspire me. I just want you to be the closet poet and the novelist I had always wanted.

Milano - Italy * Spring 2012

His writing use to be filled with so much passion and ferocity. Every sentence like a sharp knife cutting through the imagination; opening wounds of wonder. It use to stir up emotions like bubbling potions in minds as deep and dark as the blackest cauldrons. But those vessels are empty now, only single words drip-drip to the bottom like drops waiting to be part of something magical.


Good night my lunatic poet ❤