Today I woke up to the faint smell of cheese. I thought, remembering my tasty snack from the previous night. I reached for the bowl in which hid the chips. Extracting one with the fluidity of a barely awake hand, I ate it nonchalantly. It was drier than the Sahara but not entirely horrible. My vision was quite blurry but my senses well sharpened. I heard a silhouette of a sound... perhaps the confused jabberings of morning televisions. I closed my eyes, rubbed them, and my vision soon became crystal clear. I reached again for the plastic bowl, this time with a stiff arm and eyes wide open. On it shone the bright reflection of my wrong digital alarm clock. The erroneous time shone, inverted; 13:13. In the digital numbers, and inverted, it clearly spelled a name, so close to my heart, and yet far away. It was her name. I shook with fright. I rubbed my eyes once more, in disbelief, and when I had looked again the time had went on and left me without her. It display the inverse of 13:14. I shuddered, saddened at the thought of her. I reached for more chips. I didn't look at the bowl. I felt around the accursed alarm clock, crawling into the bowl, and extracting my stale reward. I looked out of the imprisoning window- holding the darkness in- I could see today would be chilly- one of those days in which the shady spots seem frozen and the sunny spots of ground briefly remind you of long-gone Summer and her heat. A cloudy sky but no sign of dreadful rain. That dull, peaceful gray of clouds- surely it won't rain. I kept on thinking of things other than her. Distraction hides frustration, I presume. But I couldn't occupy myself enough without thinking of her. Especially when "It's all over now, Baby Blue" is playing in my head. Bob Dylan on a lonesome weekend morning. Truly, what a perfect cure it is.

Adonis

And the next day after that is even more depressing than the one before. And surprisingly more chaotic. Twirling and dancing and singing. All with a pen. Now blue, then black; the time before dark, this time light. When does it end? When will it?? I just see scribbles. It is the pen that writes. I hold onto it. It courses by, ringing its loud alarm at me now and then. This gift of inspiration. And when I hear the chimes and the tintinnabulation I arise from my hibernation, slave to the rhythm of the pen.

It wrote this, the other day. An essay. Prosaic.

My First Romance

Is romance so easily understood that we can justify our case for our first romance, or is romance an enigma never fully understood by even the most romantic? Who are we to say, "this was our first romance;" is not defining such a complex and simple thing an act of futility in itself? But I presume I can write about the most captivating, the earliest memorable, and the longest lasting romance of my short, unimportant life...

You can understand her beauty only with your own eyes. I have tried to capture it in words for ages, and have come to accept my inability to accomplish it to perfection. No matter how delicately, how fully I describe her, with what detail could I pen the endless beauty of that smile, or capture those eyes, or display that hair? If I started talking about her delicate nose, ever so perfect, or about the freckle adorning it, when shall I end? What of her tender lips, her piercing persona. Fail not the words to express beauty in such glorious personification? Why, if Helen were still alive, she would have been jealous!

I knew her since youth. Very simple lives we lived, innocent, both sharing a village in the Middle East amidst snowy mountain chains and an ever changing Mediterranean. At first were we friends, but never did she strike me with much awe or impress me and impress in me her simple delicacy and beauty. I was too young for romance. And Romance was busy with those foolish enough to love. She spent her time as she wished, I spent my time with complete freedom as well. We were free - but alone.

But I grew up, and quite coincidentally, as did she. She grew more beautiful. I watched with wonder. She became the goddess of beauty that I fail to describe. I became fascinated. Days came and went and my fancy turned to wonder, my wonder transformed into questions, my questions to discussions with her, spawning the romance.

I became foolish. I'd wake up to Romance and sleep with Romance. All day romantic thoughts fill my head. And on the rare occasion that I remember my dreams, she is in them. It is mutual. It is love.

And so, my romance, this "first" of romances, could arguably be considered the only one. And hopefully thus shall it remain.

Adonis

Yesterdays just come and go

Like there is no tomorrow.

Every moment flies by fast,

Present and future are past.

Power, wealth, riches, all gone

Only simple love lives on.

Live each moment like your last:

Every moment flies by fast.

Spend time with the One you love,

Walk and look to heav'n above,

Live honestly, walk in truth,

Grow old holding fast your youth,

Keep forgiving, remain strong,

Treasure Wisdom, sing her song,

Practice temperance, pray for Man,

Follow that eternal plan,

Be obedient, humble, kind,

Feed the hungry, show the blind,

Honor freedom and be just,

Have respect, flee youthful lusts,

Love thy neighbor, love thy God.