good night, moon

it felt exactly like the old days. the ancient days, before history itself. a window opened to the night, facing a dirty backyard. the moon high in the sky, peeking through slate clouds. and i, sitting on the lattice. alone with the slim cinder that will consume me and eventually, one day (perhaps too late?) will kill me.

i felt sore. i felt like a tangled piece of scar tissue. just like in the old days, i was hurt, ripped by too many wounds. some of them were recent, bleeding on the surface of my skin. some of them, however, were old, very old, running deep through my inner self, oblivious to flesh and bone. all of me was an open sore, left aside without hope or care. all i had was night's cold embrace, a dirty backyard with dying trees to stare at, a cigarrette. and loneliness.

relatively speaking, i might well be lucky, as many have never even had that much. but leaving such considerations aside, i simply felt like dying. again. somethings simply never change. and no one can afford to be so naïve as i have been, for the price to pay is often too high.