Emerald

My life, of late, has been an abstract fragmented montage of collages.

It feels like a time-warp five years back, a time of almost manic uneasy excitement and childish certainty juxtaposed with another hazy dream-like impossible situation.

Purple neon light, poison on a lover's lips, golden skin and golden eyes, flickering shadows, murmured gibberish, fragrant smoke as the lines of text start to shift, delirious exhilaration, snatches of conversation, Macca's, hysterical screaming, the smoky flavour of whisky, the warmth of your skin, your pets I grew to love, the things I left behind, burning bridges, saying goodbye, genuine laughter, a companionable silence, your hands on my back, bright lights that never existed blinding me, tears wetting your shoulder, getting lost in a temporary euphoria I was never sure I wanted... nothing makes real sense anymore.

Nothing feels real anymore.

In another month or two, I think I'll probably find out that I was right all this while, and nothing was real after all, just a little more than half a year's worth of dreaming.

It wasn't half bad for a midsummer's night folly.

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Resume post later - spent the night reading a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo that I picked up at a barbeque, am now nursing a bit of a throbbing migraine and the conviction that vengeance is a fucking waste of time and happiness.