Making thoughts flow on a computer screen. without edits - as i have only known with a pen between my fingers.  Silver keys and a golden morning.

There is beauty in it's endless possibilities.

I am overwhelmed by it's delicious vastness, by its compelling energy,
I open one half of my window to feel the first flickers of an orange and blue dawn on a chilly September morning.
I sit staring at you. The touch of the bunch at the ends of my sleeves distracts me. 

I wish i could latch the door, I think, and push the limits of this beautiful awakening from numbness, Fly. But the latch is taken off.

Im scared this moment will take over me, tumbling gliding into the concentric depths of this abyss, once again, as it always does, face to face with the realisation that i was not living, or if i'm not, now, then i was in a place not meant for me. The realization that i am everything i detest, that i gave in easy. Being you, only so i never could say much later, i never knew what i had left, to choose what i did.

Must we experience what we are not, to know what we are?

The lump in my throat has a form, a volume today, and as much as there are tasks to do, responsibilities to tend to, a balance to keep with, i'd rather be a loser today and sit here writing silly old fashioned dialogues.

The pasts behind this savage desire are manifest, I too might years from now, become you because we are all just at different places of the mind. It isn't time or age, but your eyes bespoke what others may have misread, and I let you walk over me thus.

Had I not left it there, if it was another place and time, had I found an anchor in this boat, I could have sailed with you. If only i could hold on, if only I could get on the boat, if only I could trust. You stand there, a little boy, back in a time when you waited longingly, wistfully, for the world to corrupt you.

But now you are a man who wants to dirty the young to shed the years of dirt you have picked, and the young must only live their youthful dreams of heart shaped boxes. Yet, the monster of age makes you want their innocent dreams. Bare bodies, bare bodies, nakedness, a little bit of anything, a little wildness, just anything, such is growing up. I will see you again, and take this to its shore.

Could your deepest instincts fool you? the only thing you can believe?
And where does failure take you - to giving up? to growing up?

Growing up may be another word for our failure to fight for a pure innocence that is lost on the world.