How do I allow myself to be moved? But who I truly am, there is no ground that holds me. I float, and I know not when I will ever come back down. I know not if my feet will ever touch the sand.

I swim. My head is above water, my hair swims on its own like that of a mermaid. But I don’t have a mermaid tail, but two legs struggling to keep me above water. Making it to the surface, yet what I really wish for is to touch the depth without drowning in the process of reaching it.

You restrain yourself once more, limiting yourself to one option or the other.

I desire the darkness of the depth and the certainty of what I am able to see on the surface.

I sit right on the edge of two worlds: one that I have mastered, and the other which my heart desires to conquer.

I am a conqueror, yes. I don’t merely experience things; I become them—they become me. I don’t desire mere pleasure, but to be consumed by that which I desire, and my desire consumed by me.

I am pathetically intense, as Sylvia once said, yet I embrace such intensity. It isn’t a burden, but rather a sin that my heart savours—that I devour with utter hunger, with utter thirst to taste the blood of what I have conquered.

The fear, the hesitation—it makes it all the more satisfactory.

The world I have mastered, as peaceful as I have made it to be, no longer awakens my mind to desire. I am but a mere spectator in it, for I have done all there is to do.

I have dug the ground, ravished the roots, and planted inside of me. It now lives inside me—and I, inside it.

Now I find myself at the threshold of your world, of your soul. I have chosen you specifically for this. For I had perceived something you are not yet to see.

I am beyond you, beyond us—beyond and above.

You are a world of fire that appears like an inferno. I, an ocean of a sea superposed on one another. That ocean somewhat makes me immune to your fire, yet you cannot help but drown inside me.

I cannot save you. I can only lure you into what you had decided long before.

I am that which you desire, and you are mine.

I am to sit on your fire, but only my heart burns for you while you drown within my waters—within you find yourself looking back at you.

I am inside, in the middle of everything that you are, yet I remain unsatisfied. For everything that I get hold of, you burn once more.

All I am left with is the ashes of what could’ve been.

Insatiable and hungry, I leave you drowning within my waters. For water cannot consume fire, and fire cannot consume water. They can only taste the contrast of what they shall never become.

I wake up every day with the same feeling, the same day repeating itself, but nothing is the same.

I wake up every day with anguish in my heart over where I am and where I am not. My eyes see a different reality than the one within. I look at myself in the mirror and I cannot recognize myself. Of course, I still look the same—the same essential traits. However, everything has changed. I’ve become a stranger to myself, not in a dramatic, poetic way, but in a lifeless, stagnant, empty manner. I look at myself and I see nothing inside my flesh, nothing beyond my eyes. No future, no past, not even presence.

I wake up with anguish in my heart because I don’t know how to enter my body. I don’t know how to embody myself—whatever that was. I am but a mere carcass that does not harmonize with the essence given to me. But I shouldn’t blame the corpse, for it is I who am out of alignment. As though there were several I’s, and I had forgotten which one was truly me.

My body is confused. It does not know what to do with itself. It does not know what to be. It does not know whom it belongs to.