I had forgotten how comfortable can be to open a book, get lost between its pages and abandon me, living other lifes and experiences through the imagination of the person who wrote it. Or how reliable it is to sing along an epic tune about fantasy and feel a chill down my spine, close my eyes and abandon me again to the pleasure of all those feelings condensed in just five fleeting minutes. Or how good it is to let my imagination fly, an imagination that didn’t die with childhood and so became more powerful, capable of building whole characters with their own personality, story, hopes and feelings, in whom I can find a refuge and abandon me. And so I start to think how great it’d be if I didn’t have to eventually get back into reality, if I didn’t need to get out of myself again. Then that’s when I get lost within myself, people and feelings in the outer world fading away, becoming pale reflections of their real intesity, like if they were thousand of miles away, like if I haven’t experienced them in a million years. I don’t feel like meeting anyone, like going anywhere, just want to stick to my rutine and live between my thoughs, fantasies, books and arts. But that turns not real either, it’s just a way of escapism and protection of my weak ego that only leads to self-destruction…

Anyway, I’m getting lost inside myself  again, all seems to be far away and I’m uncapable of feeling anything  but this bitter burning emptiness, the well known sensation I’m wasting my time, although I don’t know how to get away from this. I’m in a free fall into the abism of my heart, and while I go deeper down, I can see you watching, standing on the edge. Last night you appeared in my dreams, but suddenly went away, and the  desperate idea of finding you filled my mind, so I wandered the rest of the night, lost in the land of dreams, looking for you, but couldn’t find you anywhere. And  I need someone to hold me and guide me through the terrific place out of myself, someone who can bond me to the world.


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