People always wear a mask of Death on their faces before passing away. The most amazing is that they are rarely aware of it. And they huff and puff Life like a million cigarettes through each and every pore, rendering the skin to a mere barrier that ends bursting up like a fragile bubble. Some can’t bear waiting and tear into the soft tissue, blood flows like a volcano and the eyes close before the final act. This process is called “suicide” and has become a favourite in certain cycles. Despair evolved into a trend.

I figured I wanted to have my eyes wide open when Death will embrace me.

Sometimes, I lay still on my bed, trying to listen attentively to the silence. I glance at the smoke rising and follow it up to realise once again that the discoball hanging from the ceiling is swaying. And it makes me think. About that old woman, kilometres away, sitting in her rocking chair and creating wind. I always picture an atrocious face, long unruly hair and cynical smirk. She is taunting me, she is threatening me about something I can’t recall.

I generally phone my best friend then, in case he found an answer to my doubting.

Nook, Nooky, Nooks. We met because he had hot pink hair and threw his arm around my shoulders, asking if I believed in Satan. I replied I didn’t, he left abruptly, I felt lame. He returned with two cups of steaming coffee and we started talking. I never knew his real name: he told me I could choose how I wanted to call him. I came up with Nook as his mind turns and swirls like a labyrinth, he smiled. I go walking under a grove of sycamore, early in the day, if I want to see him. His hair has changed colour since but he remains the same.

I always stare as if I could make holes in his paper throat.

The sun rose but I didn't even realise because I had shut my blinds. I went out to buy cigarettes because I'm such an addict. It took me fifteen minutes to pull my right sock on. I started staring off into space and lost Time again. I got dressed in a daze, it took ten more minutes to realise I was out the door. I walked along the street as if it were a river in Venice, looked up at the sky, down to my feet. The sky is blue because the black of the universe faded out and I kicked pebbles while attempting to stretch my arms like wings. On the whole path from the gas station to my apartment block, there is only one tree branch I can reach. I know he could touch so many more.

Walking along the sidewalks, wind blowing and rain falling. There is a smell of honeysuckles and I search for its source. It reminds me of clean-cut grass, picnics and white dresses. Of childish laughter, cartwheels and a vague picture perfect memory.

At five am, Nook always reeks of sex and I want to eat him. He has a special expression because he knows things I ignore. After all, he has been there for so long, you can see ghosts of cigarettes crushed at his feet. He says he wishes he could integrate my soul, to figure out what is really going on in there. I take a step back: what the hell, you freak? Get a fucking grip, I won’t bite my way through.

My shadow melts away from the ground on which I am walking. I look down at the mismatched socks, the bright tangled bracelets, the wire sinking in my discman. Kiss me, kiss me. A hush and a murmur. You’re the one for me.

There have been talks about my future. I really hate my fucking future. It makes no sense, just like this story I'm trying to write. A friend told me to make it into a poem so its sense wouldn't matter. But I'm sure there is one, hidden in the midst of erratic words and I'm searching after it. My mind is playing games with me, endless fields of half-filled shit-coloured cups before me, it just doesn't feel right. I make no sense because I can't remember what brought all these thoughts and I'm losing my touch. I'm losing it. It's like my emotions will only reach out to me now and it hurts. I wish I could share it with him but I’m afraid of nonchalance.

It makes me think of this couple of old persons I once saw in the street. They were about eighty and were holding hands. A pure exchange. The memory is one of the prettiest things I have ever seen.

The water of the lake has always been a source of fascination. When I was six, I jumped in it, hoping to touch the sparkling diamonds I was seeing. I’m soaked, it can’t be rain in this smothering heat. The red swings seem forlorn as we use the see-saw of our dreams. The sky often gives glimpses of above, you just have to watch carefully for signs. Nook cries out in wonder when he finds, pointing frantically. We’re counting the clouds and the stars that will appear, making stories with the lights we see shine in others’ rooms.

We’re sitting on the curb of the sandbox and cigarette smoke wavers and waves, writing questions in the air.

Hazy, lazy days. I've lost foot. So tired, so drained. I've stopped smiling because I can't keep the feeling in my pocket, like the leaves I have been picking up from the ground. It seems like happiness is a tall Lego tower that I keep kicking over because I'm dumb. He patiently rebuilds his half, I’m not sure I’ll ever finish building mine. It doesn't really matter: I don't want to be happy. I’ll just stay constant because ‘no ups’ means ‘no downs’. I think it’s all about balance and the art of never tipping the scale. It works for a lot of things, even the unimportant ones.

I often have two drinks in front of me, especially if one is either hot or alcohol. One sip in the first, two in the second, three, one, four. If I don't pay attention, I sometimes even end up with a sip of both in my mouth all at the same Time. Coffee tastes like shit with practically any other flavour.

I can't remember which day it was but I was smoking with the window open. I was half-way on the roof and rain was pouring around me. I have a skylight so it dripped all around my face and on the room's walls. I was on top of the world and could almost contact his soul. I stared and watched the basketball court glistening like mirrors, quasi wishing I could be as talented. It felt nice, like there was a personal little rain cloud right above me.

I want to fall asleep on the hood of a car, staring at the stars. Walk in the middle of the night hand in hand with the sea. Dance in the rain with a tulle dress and ballet slippers.

Drugs are making me severely sick. It seems like the return to the norm crashes down on me, harder and harder. Life remains the same without truly bothering me but all these seasons, these thoughts.. I want to run away from them. I don't want to grow up, I think that's it. I'd like to stay in this sort of alternate world I've created, where Time doesn't exist, when cigarettes taste like heaven and I can type away my stupid little stories, thinking someone will care.

Steam dances with smoke: I think I’ve found inspiration again because his wrists and neck are illuminated by heartbeats.

I once bought an ice cream cone with little chocolate hearts because it was raining. Nook teased me because it was fucking cold out. The sky was a pure stormy blue, with clear openings here and there. I think Life decided to be nice to me as some things just won't go my way. They can seem flawless from afar but it is just like impressionist painting. It’s all a lie. I’ve just told the biggest lie.

Everyone looks the same under the rain. Make-up and fashionable haircuts cease to exist, you are only what you are. I’m in love with Rain.

I was walking down the street. My apartment was suffocating me so go figure, I went to go buy cigarettes. Two boys stare at me and I feel self-conscious, glancing down at my tattered shoes and hip-revealing baggies. What are this wrinkled shirt I threw on and this face I can't change? It screams 'Me' but sometimes, I wish it didn't. Will he love me as I am? I meet a girl on the way. Plump would be the word. She has a revealing tank top, tight-fitted pants and seems uncomfortable. I lift my head and walk more easily. The weird contradiction between her clothes and attitude make me realise I never try to be. It happens that I win.

I’m walking back home and there is a weird rosy light, casting trees on my way and blowing liquid petals before my eyes. I hear laughter and music behind, I turn but there is nothing.

Nook is laughing with his pink tongue and lovely eyes. I was looking at his piercings, those tiny holes punched into his flesh and declared they must be passways to hell. What the fuck, you’re stoned. It makes sense. It actually does. He calms down and his aura smiles at me. I want to embrace the gold, I want to swallow the light. It hurts so much at times. To give myself a countenance, I light a cigarette. The smoke will kiss him for me because I don’t have the courage to do so. He leans down.

The weather was wonderful, the earth smelled good and the trees seemed greener. I was cold physically but inside, everything was erupting like a volcano.

Nothing is more wonderful than to see two cups of coffee steaming on a low table. I tilt my head to the side and smile. I’m glamorous for once, the eyeliner isn’t smudged anymore, it is weeping. I don’t have a hoarse smoker’s voice, it is softly deep and the cigarette hides trembling lips. I attentively observe a shaking body, a shy boy. Fragile eyes follow me as I move, twirl, dance. I am beautiful like a vinyl collection, my walls have been repainted with words.

I want to draw poetry on his skin and sketch novels on his lips.

You know how humans only use 10% of their brain? Maybe it's a bit more, I don't know. I've always thought that the so-called insane persons use more than the average. That schizophrenics just see and hear what we refuse to see and hear. That we all live in fucking denial and even then, we keep denying futile things. Ghosts don't exist because we refuse to see them, science and society limit us to certain thoughts and concepts. The human mind just can't cope with all that surrounds it because we are weak and too lazy to organise all this chaos of words.

I think I’ve found an answer and it is almost like a sixth sense.

Just a boy, coffee and a pack of cigarettes.

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All this was based off entries of the last page of my livejournal and mostly, my imagination. I know it seems like it doesn’t make any sense, like there is a load of crap in between clues but everything is there for a reason. Just feel the whole year pass by, the ups and downs and don’t think. Love or hate. Speaking of, I really don’t like coffee.

If you catch the 1) literary and 2) musical references slipped somewhere in here, I’ll write you a story, haha.