O how I wish I was a poet, how I wish the sonnets composed in my head would flow through and out of me and touch the heart of someone else. There is so much beauty in your eyes, so much strength in you - I find myself constructing metaphors and poems in my head that in their abstraction hold the value of being with you, and yet the more I find myself drifting off into you the less of me I can express. There are no words left for how I feel, there is no explanation. There are stories winding through my head every moment - if only these words were mine - for it is not these beautiful poems that make me in in respect to everyone else. The words I speak and what I give are to be interpreted as 'me', these words are short and rambling, my voice cracks as I vomit up my own interpretation of my thoughts. The more the classics are re-translated the less value they are attributed with - I must at this point accept that all I can give is a second or third translation of myself, dumbed down with self-hate and confusion. My best is an interpretation of what it is I think I believe - like the actor I dreamed of as a child my life has now become a constant role to play - love of art and thought and exploration are all gone and my life is a dream of mine in which I am the main character, figgiting, searching for a line and an expression I have half forgotten. I am alive at this point in time in the hopes that in the end of all shame a wave of joy will pass through me and I will say the perfect thing, one sentence that I know is right, one gift to give to someone who knows how very much it means, so that once I have finally gazed into the eyes of pure honesty and dignity I can pass away with the wind as I have the whole of my life, fade into a haze, and let who Ive pretended to be be forgotten and replaced with a word, a thought, a sentence and maybe one moment of purity trapped in time - the last documentation of a life of forgotten beauty.