Translation I

R, how did the constant monotony of your forlorn days pass? When your light faded behind the perplexing fabric of sorrow.

Tell me about your confusing adolescence, the innocent seclusion of your hands.

Did you know that beneath the fire of your woe, your tormenting tears, lay the answer to why silver lakes shine?

R, now, with me by your side, dare to let go. Accord with the essence of light.

Learn to fade in the hermetic serene.

At this moment, my R, you are in efflorescence.

Nostalgia I

The asthenic winter sun shone on the snow crested path that I walked on once a week to get to the mountain. As I walked among the trees, the sleeping giant started to dominate the December sky. The golden field of wild dried grass, randomly uniform, luminous and redolent, reminded me of her skin. Candescent while nature was at It's seasonal halt. As I approached the mountain, the single entity that spawned lucidity for me at those days, frosty swelled rocks became more frequent.

As I climbed the small hill, the frigid city became more visible, just to fade into the nothingness I wanted it to become with a simple turn of my head. patches of green grass amongst the grey rocky background were soothing to the eyes that had teared up in the face of the wild winter wind which froze anything that defied it. As the sun that sat around 5:30 in the afternoon on those days was dying off, the eastern paper moon had gained flight, and I reached the apex.

Mountain after mount, stones frozen in time and space faded into the afternoon sky. My bones ached and my face was numb but I couldn't care. The measly I had reached the mountain top to see the sight of the grand peaks afar, to be reminded of just how trivial he truly was.

S1- III

She's more than a distraction. She's bewildering. I don't know if I need her or not, that shouldn't even matter since she might have a higher purpose. Perhaps her role would be to give meaning. Not that my life is meaningless, but I've equated the meaning of my life to its purpose. If I set romanticism aside then she will not mean anything as I've defined meaning to be. But then why is she important to some twisted part of me? She challenges me. More importantly, she challenges my definition. No, she makes me challenge it with her abstractness, she demurs who I am. She slickly takes my words apart so the fabrics of my intellect are no longer in accord with me.

S1- II

She's more than a distraction. She's bewildering. I don't know if I need her or not, that shouldn't even matter since she might have a higher purpose. Perhaps her role would be to give meaning. Not that my life is meaningless, but I've equated the meaning of my life to its purpose. If I set romanticism aside then she will not mean anything as I've defined meaning to be. But then why is she important to some twisted part of me?
She challenges me. More importantly, she challenges my definition. No, she makes me challenge it with her abstractness, she demurs who I am. She slickly takes my words apart so the fabrics of my intellect are no longer in accord with me.

S1- I

Days turn to months and pass too quickly to be indulged. A trend that has by now become mundane is one of fucking. What started as an exploration into the darkness of coupleation has by now turned into nothing but a straining, adverting task. I shared a bed with a girl who's beauty was one for Nabokov to depict. Likes of her are not frequently found in my bed, though the number of my female companions has grown quite considerably in the past year. As I watched the afternoon sun glare on her swift body as she laid there on her bed while I enjoyed the view from a building I used to live in, she asked me what I was thinking about. A question which was answered dishonestly, since what I was mulling over was why I self indulgently wanted to leave all this subliming beauty and be by my self. But after a few days the urge always returns, And with it a new girl. If I keep this up, I will fuck my way to the end of times. Perhaps to assert to myself a needlessness for love. But some say without love why do we live on. Frankly aside from passing on my genes and leaving a mark on the society i see no other point. Why should I? Those two seem rather compelling to me as I have no need for deeper meaning. I'm not in a state of despondency, I would call it acceptance.

On Absurdity

"The Absurd" is defined as the conflict between the human tendency to seek a meaning for life and his inability to find any. So what is humanly impossible, rather that logically impossible, is absurd.

To resolve one's discomfort with this issue, Camus and Kierkegaard have proposed three ways:

1. Suicide, as a measure of escaping the situation. But ending one's existence in a meaningless universe due to a lack of meaning is absurd in itself.

2. Religion, To believe that there is an alternative reality, or perhaps it's better to say one that is free of the absurd and therefore is burdened with meaning.

3. To accept and embrace the absurd, which does not mean that to accept and believe that everything is meaningless, but according to Camus, that meaning is subjective and developed overtime for one's sake of content. As Camus said: " one's freedom – and the opportunity to give life meaning – lies in the recognition of absurdity. If the absurd experience is truly the realization that the universe is fundamentally devoid of absolutes, then we as individuals are truly free. "To live without appeal, is a philosophical move to define absolutes and universals subjectively, rather than objectively. The freedom of humans is thus established in a human's natural ability and opportunity to create their own meaning and purpose; to decide (or think) for him- or herself."

The Terminal

   Two minutes to midnight, according to the numbers that dwelled beneath the cracked screen of my phone. At this point I had waited for the bus, that clearly was not coming, for about twenty minutes.
Having been possessed and ensnared by cheap demons who did not allow me to spend forty bucks for a cab ride, I was left with only one choice. 
   I gazed at the gigantic building that was reflecting the full moon's light, masterfully so, as the building's white arched edges were intertwined with the clouds above. I took the lift and entered the Terminal. The appearance of a terminal at midnight is quite predictable. A single person stretched on a row of seats that were intended to accommodate four. Children running around their weary parents. Luggage everywhere. Waiting. Just waiting. This is how people get old, I thought to my self.
   I sat down at a corner table in the only cafe open in the whole terminal. The white clock that was hanging above the sleeping African showed 12:10. I knew that the first bus in the morning comes at 7. I ordered a cup of coffee and opened my book (Trauma by Patrick McGrath).
   By 3:00 I have had another cup of coffee, finished my book and was observing the night life of the terminal. The children had fallen beside their dozing parents. The few Europeans present were head-deep in their tablets. The cleaning crew had decided to take a rather long smoke break. The moon was at the opposing side of where it was when I came in. As my non existing audience has by now came to expect from me, what I was looking for, and as usual, did not find, was meaning. At least nothing more grand than waiting. Waiting as the meaning of a scenario, since it was all this whole night represented.
   By 5:00, to scape the mind-numbing monotony of a terminal at halt, I sat next to the east window and watched the sky for the first bright spear of sunlight to appear. To laugh at the sunrise since you've been up all night is a paroxysm that I think is the manifestation of something that one can call pride.
   Two hours later, as I boarded the surprisingly crowded bus I thought to myself, perhaps waiting is necessary. Perhaps for our mind to out-run our body. Or maybe so a bad writer can have something to write about.