Absolute despair, she was in. she wriggled closer to the walls. She was scared.

The walls guarded her and no demon could disturb her apparition. Such was her faith. The walls. The god. She was small. Tiny. And thin. I looked up and found no head to the god. The wall expanded into the magma the sky gave it. I could see a silencing glare in the sky,. I saw the walls, burning. I felt the quake on me. Charging into my skin, the vibration peaked my pores with a stabbing heat. The radiance. The glare seemed to have gotten trapped within me. Something was not letting it go. To go to the unseen. The soothing was not letting it out. Something balming the heating orgasm inside me. catalyzing in my cavities. Rising to the epitomes. It was a sudden paranoia. A cold layer over me. Between the heat inside and the endodermis above. Special. Unique, I felt. The feeling of a rescued vagabond. The life granted in desperation. The life gifted to a dead fly. The second entrance to go back. A quarter of anothers lifespan. It was the quarter life of another fly. It meant pathetically null to me. For all the dilemmas forging inside her, she could only pity the wastage of the elixir of life on her pathetic chance. A bright flash. And it stopped. She did not dare to part her eyelids. Fearing to be seared to death by the flare. I knew it was not a mere paranoia. Every instinct had a connection to the reason. She felt divine. Omnipotent. The power rushing through her. She knew what the elixir was, the soothing orgasm was, that. The ultimate communion to the omnipotent. It was not a reason to be special. Every breath, endowed the equal glory and equal pity. The power of free will. Free will. It existed in all the caricatures breathing life. It was just a moment of poesy that inflicted a rare idea right through. Or was it what

seline termed as lucid dreaming ? My greatest fear ? The ultimate pleasure is my final fear ? I disapproved of my own hypothesis. I strongly like pleasure. It was never a dislike. And will never be one. I always did, crave for pleasure. Yes, the burst out, the vortex of libido, the epitome of pleasure was my craving and fear. I feared that burst out. I feared the terrain. The podium I be on after the orgasmic trip. I feared myself. Either be the vague feel or the detonation. Yes, I settled on the former option lucid dreams, indeed. Almost plausible. It was just my entangled psychic somersaulting with reality. I will wake up to my paralyzed human body. I will just be confined to my own crutches and lungs. Unable to move, shift or even stand. Dependent . half a life, cling onto an extra material. Just to survive. To live. And to exist. And, to be normal. Cemented to a static. Born an immobile exception. An exception. And invalid. Unreal world, the only blame I can rely with surety. Alone, compelled to be forgotten. Ignored. Darkened. And never found. Lost.
[Type the document title] | [Pick the date]

If people would heed in real to what I just stated above, I might be the most pitied individual . for in my world, it is of no matter. My world nulls the importance of a body. A chunk of the mind is the sole requirement. My world is blend into the amalgam of thoughts. Entangled. And detached. Memoirs, moments and anecdotes. a fragile string. It is a pensive. It is life inside a pensive. Life of the abstract. You live in your own protoplasm. That which has no past, present or future. Or rather my Neverland is the perfect orbit around and among the past, present and future. The predestined fate. Caught in a womb of web that

becomes your world. The confined. Helplessness defines its own mere existence. There is another side. The shade of life. The shade of warmth. The shade of a world knit on feelings, their destiny. And their energy. Their life. Life in the ruins of the dark, but in the concretes of light . away from the dark helms. The other side. Not far from the dark, it existed for me. I stabbed the conscience that nagged me way before. As if my eyes were way too open to see the reality that people wanted me to process. Arrogance, it may seem, but I value myself special. Unique. Just like the fantasy worlds. Something dormant will come alive in me at the perfecto` twisto`. The dirty hope, indeed. The hope, it was carved in me when I was molded and given a life. Perhaps, the extended l bonus of being a religious person. Even death fails to make an impression or a blunt impact. The fear of the real downtrodden. I will be dead someday and at the gate, before the ultimatum and still have the scrutinizing hope that life is not yet done with me. I will live. Just like I live now. Every single life can be dead, but me. I tried to trace the source , the reason. Or the date when this eternal hope diseased me. Satisfaction never found me. I, was always thirsty. I always desired a perpetual hearth somewhere. One to which a dead sore was the only answer. It was destined to be my quench forever. The want , the desire .The curiosity, The aflame constants of the pristine nectar.

[Type the document title] | [Pick the date]

Feelings. Yes, life is just a predestined boredom . Through, an abstract. White. Narrow. And a black carpeted journey. If not for the poignant lucidity in feelings, they are what maketh our boundaries. The diversity of the same hormone. The umbilical cords expanding into the dark. The divine hand . The approval. The final judgment. And , the end.

[Type the document title] | [Pick the date]