It is mighty hard to summarize and quantify something that has been lost. It is like death, where your whole and content life passes in front of your eyes in a fleeting second. Except that these are not seconds but weeks or months. It is like the dawn of a new day, except that you had been up whole night lying in a dream only to realize that you have to close your eyes and face the ironical darkness of reality. You are therefore blind as the sun embarks on a journey showing the path to the other half of the planet.
You vouch just for a smile; actually a hint of one would suffice. That valorous turn of the head, eyes searching for your existence validating your existence. The touch that makes you feel a sense of reality that you are very close to the intangible.
It was not a dream but you are now very sleepy. And even if the next few hours may lie in the disdainful comfort of the mattress, with a promise of the same dose of reality during those lifeless and pitiless hours, it may be considered that have just woken up and have got to go to work.
This is not a Shakespearean propaganda of the ill fated, promised to meet his maker. This is not a discouraging discourse of a dissertation of a disappointment. This is not the mating call of a lost African mammal. I am therefore not a depressed homosexual Victorian poet high on cocaine. These are just words from corpse flying in the air with the flies that enjoy it.
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