The odour of overflowing garbage has a remarkable effect – it never fails to outsmell the best of perfumes. That goes for malculture too!

My heart has sunk so deep I’m afraid I’ll never find it again. No matter how much I try to gasp life into it, it keeps sinking. It’s the wrong world to exist in, it’s the wrong identity to live for. I reached out for you to lift it, but I guess you don’t understand the language I speak. And I don’t have the courage to start all over again. Maybe it’s time to let go of myself.

I return you the same indifference you gifted me. I am stuck in my teens, my eyes seek beauty in everything, my mind wanders off in dreams. However, colouring a pheasant doesn’t turn it into a peacock.

You can call me the king who knows that none of it belongs to him and one day he will belong to none of it.

It’s a beautiful morning. I remembered you. For hours I let Bach tear my heart (or what’s left of it since you are gone) into a thousand pieces and my tears blind me.

We sit across and look away from each other. While I appear to be busy I peek at you innumerable times during this boring melodrama. You are beautiful and I savour every sight of yours. And there are those occasional awkward moments when our glances meet and we quickly look away again. In those moments I know you know.

Solitude and suffering are the eternal companions of the thinking mind.

I’m solitary. But I wanted to stay immortal in my works, in the memories of the like-minded. That’s done.

Artists convert their emotions and psychological fluctuations into something more concrete and communicable. The creations become a trail of breadcrumbs to their identity. If one closely examines my works or achievements (both technical and art forms) years from now, one will realise how lonely I was when I lived. Each one of them originated in my solitude. Even when I used to be surrounded by a chaotic crowd, my mind shifted itself to an anonymous island surrounded by still blue waters.

People scare me. I can’t relate to them. My misadventures have taught me that everyone has an agenda. But life told me that it’s spontaneous with a dark sense of humour. Everything one considers near and dear are merely ways to distract one from the reality that nothing is permanent. A man, his preoccupations and obsessions will perish. The only question is in which order.

I erased your memories and along with them left the colours of my mind. I realised today that it’s been a while I wrote anything. The truth is – it’s been a while I had wanted to write anything. I think this is the end of “us”. It’s strange because all I ever wanted is someone whom I can communicate to. And you were someone to whom I used to open up like a child; happy and unassuming. But it’s alright. I understand you have your own priorities and listening to my trivia isn’t one of them.