love is dead

She nursed another roll of hash and took a long drag as she watched the dancing lights of the city night sky. Few more minutes, she’d be in a trance, in love again, with the night. The trick is to inhale as much as you can and let the smoke stay in you, like a lover’s warmth under the sheets of blanket.

Fifth Floor, East Wing.

As they say, this is where all the magic happens. But tonight, there are no faceless couples frolicking in the dark. Just her and her unbearable sadness. It’s almost contagious.

Again, she took another long drag.

She can’t help herself not to think of the unthinkable. She has acquired this anxiety problem that’s wearing her down. Paranoia is her worst enemy. Only the sweet taste of hash could stop her from counting the number of trees, lamp posts, men in moss green polo, and even her own breathing.

It’s a signal. And she knows it, acknowledges it completely. She is once again in the brink of losing and having it all. But this time, instead of denying, she longs for it to happen. To be in the spot between sanity and madness. Her own comfort zone.

It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.

The transition. It’s a process, like a slow foreplay. And yes, euphoria is making love to the universe.

Everything once again, becomes sacred.