I choose to write, for it may be my only path from mortality to immortality.
I sit placing my fingers on the keyboard like a blind man with a braille, entangled by the neurons of my brain ready to jet out in a telepathic voyage to distort the equilibrium of my mind.
I start to remember all the lips I have kissed, all the eyes I looked into, all the cigarettes I smoked, all the alcohol I consumed and all the other things that I dare not to say, in respect to the gentle nature of the human eardrums. A vortex inside me implodes a helix of all the years that passed by without a trace.
I touch my face and feel the fractal geometry of my cheek bones, I feel my skin and it became resilient, my eyes curling inside, my hair giving up to whiteness trying to be cohesive with the nomadism of my life style.
I anchor myself pleading my mind to revivify the body and face, time is unfair; it passes by very fast in a very slow pace.
Now that I have entered a state of subduction of the physical form and into a paradox of mysteriousness, I stand in a domain of silence, the sky is underneath me and my roof is the ground, the mesmerization of my being demands an explanation. I look to the left and I see the synchronicity of my past, I look to the right and I see the disarray of the future.
The world ahead is slowly becoming more infantile, please… put me in a capsule and send me to the space, for only then I might be able to write my masterpiece to illustrate the aftertaste of life.