May 6, 2004

I keep running - with one destination in mind: anywhere but here.

That's where I yearn to be - I can only pretend with artificial wings that leave my vision blurred, my pulse erratic, and my soul blissfully empty.

Even at that, it doesn't stop the universe from pulling strings I wish had been severed. I want to be a shadow, a figment of your imagination. At least then, Fate (in all it's cruel glory) could not catch me.

It always runs faster, with time and experience on it's side.

Pader Fatum, why? I don't want this.

Let me fade into the crowd of faceless drones until I find some semblance of who I am and should be. Stop trying to give me wings to fly because we both know they are cheap imitations - set to tease and tempt but never function.

I am the glass that has etched out my own eyes. A true masochist.