You said you don't care but I do, too much. I hear Joni Mitchell say: if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away. And so I never let them know, I never give myself away. What about you? Are you just a lie in a story written by God?

I keep sensing something really sinister, something really wrong. I can't put a word to it but I know I would be proven right one day and yes, I am sickly and strangely happy thinking about it.

And yet tomorrow I will forget everything. I will be living innocently again in a series of sad stories with no happy endings, and I will not know why.

Tomorrow I will forget everything. Until someone reads this post. Again. And again. And again.


"What are you doing in my room?" he exclaimed.

He had no idea. Inexplicable. Bizarre.

"Maybe this is a dream," she said.

"Whose dream is it then? Mine or yours?"

"Does it matter? It can even be someone else's dream, as long as we are here together."

He wasn't sure but he said, "Yes, you are right."

Chained by a shackle of morals dropping through the grounds, he was being pulled to hell. Not unaware, but held mesmerised, quelled and soothed by the sirens. Not the sirens of the sea, but the daughters of the earth. He had a face of tranquility of sorrows.

"None of us have woken up yet, she said, "we are still here in this dream."

"Yeah," he said.

Something wasn't right.

"This is starting not to feel like a dream," he said.

"Yeah," she said.

"Maybe this is real," he groaned.

"Yeah," she replied.

"You are a left-hander," he said.

She opened her eyes wide.

"How do you know?" she asked.

He shrugged and gave his boyish smile.

She frowned for a moment. Finally. Laughed. "You talk like this often?"

He shrugged again. While she laughed again. Happily. And she tugged his heart. A pang. Of which he could not explain. And he thought he felt rather old. And sad. Still, his expression was the same - deadpan.

"I've got to go," he told her.

"I thought you said you would be with me forever," she said.

"I don't belong here. I've got to go," he repeated.

She came over and hugged him. "Stay, please.."

"No I can't. You've got to go too."

"Please stay!" she shouted in the background. "STAY!!"

He made no sound. Just sat quietly, listening. And his voice slipping through in between lights and shadows.

"Their love is forbidden color."

Then he continued, sadly: "And my love, is forbidden color." "I don't understand. If it is wrong. Why God made it feel so good."

"How can something that feels good be wrong?"
"Where is my piece of my ocean?"
"When will I reach there?"

"I will be gone when your song's ended."

"So when will it be my turn?" he asked.

"Don't worry," the reaper replied. "When it's time, I will personally come to collect you. I will make sure of that."

He laughed. "I've been waiting, all my life. I just hope it's soon."


It doesn't matter. Writers are liars. Actors are liars. Everything is a lie, including this one.