Morazán

I am here, alone, drinking a cup of coffee. can i say that i feel a little less empty? am i truly able to enjoy such a moment? i could not say that this instance is one of silence, for ghosts crowd my thoughts, while i try to decipher something that would keep me calm. now, the question that i have no answer for, is, well, what is it exactly that i am trying to live for? i am not gifted with this vision.

my life experience has reached a certain degree of alienation, which makes my interior design nearly white and impossible to draw with a black ballpoint pen. of course, it is even more difficult to shut the confusion out when my body is submerged in the foam somewher deep in the every day passing of time. all i know is that i hate the way feelings arouse when i lay among four white walls smudged with the yellow reflections of piss. this, now that i am here, alone, drinking coffee, i am able to rediscover (for if was prematurely obvious to me).

the place is filled with strangers, but the most impressive stranger of them all is my-self. why is my spirit continuously disturbed? why do i always try to jump out of someone's eye and intend to disguise myself as a mirage of my own desire?

the coffee in this lonely place is bitter, but with a bit of cold milk, my thoughts are no longer detained. do i really believe i am sick? yes, probably: is unhappiness a sickness? am i unhappy? i thought that one is what one thinks, but in moments such as now, i think with a dark, slither background as gloom in the shape of a dark key tone.

i wish i could see my friend, to whom i revealed my sincere desires once and never more. but now he's probably somewhere green, looking through the wind, wandering through the dense forest of thoughts, just like me. why do we feel?, i would ask him. i cannot answer this, he would reply.

i am here, drinking coffee, downtown, with crappy music in the background. and i feel alone, and it feels marvelous. time is mine and my thoughts do not wander above vanity. when i sit alone, drinking my bitter as life cup of coffee, i can hear myself, and i can feel myself. i am free of low wager, vile atmosopheres and i can hear myself scream with agony. it tastes as bitter as my coffee, and yet, bitterness has never tasted so sweet.

my fear is constituted by the knowlegde that tonight will most likely not be my last. what thoughts will caress my light-headed mind tomorrow?