For whatever its worth, there never really were any deeper feelings when things mattered. What exist today, exist in the realm of imagination. They are exaggerated feelings given unrealistic depths. These bloated emotions can never be acted upon and if ever the intended read these feelings they would have to read them knowing that they're reading fiction.
Silence has that strength which is unrivalled, not even time can compare. Silence is representative of human convictions and if it is nurtured it can yield concrete results. I write now knowing fully well that I am beyond boundaries that cannot be breached, and that I will not allow them to be breached. The original relationship has been solidified in the past and a copy has been made of it. All imaginations are run over that copy so as not confuse the original with the altered newer versions of the story.
If there was love then that love would not be able to recognize the one which reveals itself in the copy today.

The human end

In some torn hemisphere is lost the key to some token that was to reveal the identity of how I was to become whole again. That identity is there but unattainable now. I must persevere to gain it but I can't be certain of how long I can sustain my stamina. Sometimes I give in early, other times I prolong my inevitable end.
What surrounds me bewilders me, when I touch it I feel goo overcome me. This is what I've known since the day I was born. It feels as though this revelation I am seeking will kill me and in my wake, only I will be reborn again. My old limits will escape me then and I'll be able to pass through without any common or uncommon hesitance.
But for that I will have to maintain my strength. Beyond my windows are only storm clouds and unrelenting rain, what then do I await so eagerly? For what do I make such efforts, albeit carelessly?
In my old home, under the different atmosphere, nonchalance was the prized virtue. Those truly blessed wore it healthily while others found themselves striving for it. There I was known for my variety. It wasn't indecent nor did it wear some rich garb - it was dressed. When I spoke heads didn't turn with extreme wonder nor did they disdainfully shy away from me in some motion of swift. But my voice wasn't meant for any heads, heads don't listen. Heads think. My voice was meant for those instruments which listened and if those instruments subsequently talked to the respective head then that I considered a strictly private affair. Whatever it is that my voice aimed to deliver it never, ever, dared to breach the sanctity of privacy. And that is where the virtue is sufficiently and entirely understood. It isn't in the display of grand self-service that profits it, certainly not for then it is one or the other vices and nothing else. Nor is it just careless abandonment of self, where self like a feather glides from the wind's this tangent to the next one. Nonchalance is a gentleman, the utmost gentleman who is also a man among all men but lacking the insistence of being a man when among other men. Nonchalance is the definition of existence as it reveals itself to the being who is conscious enough to know, but not just one who knows but also one who has questioned. But just a bit less than that. To question isn't necessarily implying a desire to seek answers. To ask a question is an act independent from all other acts that can succeed it, it may not even be dependent on acts preceding it. Asking a question, by itself and without the yearning for resolutions, lies then at the core of Nonchalance. Nonchalance can ask but won't seek answers but it will certainly seek questions from time to time. Just so it will deliver its voice but it will not probe for reactions, it will move on before any such arrive. It isn't self-serving, rather if a nonchalant person indulged in the act it would find itself frustrated beyond any relief; for the answers are missing. For Nonchalance answers are no more important than the questions nor are the questions any more or less important than anything else. For nonchalance there is only one thing that is of any value and that is whatever it decides it to be at whatever instance of time.
It simply stops short of being entirely random before it becomes absolute chaos. Random it is not, it chooses and therefore it has some reason. It assumes reason but reason isn't presented as if it were a trophy. Reason is assumed to be the river and it: driftwood. The flow is calculated but the motions of driftwood appears random, chaotic. Whatever can be said about appearances being severely divorced from reality need be said in an unsaid manner here.

Do not post here a face which I do not want to see.

Do not walk in on us, as we indulge in this deed of ours. You will find embarrassment. We take no pleasure in it, we are made of utter guilt, and yet here we are - compromised.

Making a joke of life and its constraints - what a rebel he is? As if when waves crash ashore, like a boulder he stands fast to greet them, and yet nothing so sturdy comes across from his demeanor. 

What is in it? There is nothing to it. A little shift back and forth and it is done. Finished. It becomes a pursuit out of boredom and nothing more. Fancied and made to appear as if it defines life when it can barely even describe a lifestyle. 

No flesh, no bones, no eyes, no hair, no breath, no touch can mesmerize without the aid of the mind. The evil lurks in the anticipation of something mysterious. 

Put your heart at ease, let it sway in the wind but let the mind do its duty. The heart is an instrument of boredom and lies if some say it does more. 

What is it that I've missed? A woman's warmth, her embrace and some opportunity to take care of her. That is what I've missed the most. There is none to whom to give. 

To peak the sunset, 

 to not drown with it. To whatever maybe the ocean or mountain beyond it or if only particles of existence lay there, I will embrace it all. Hell, if it breaks my conscience, hell so if it turns my soul so. 

In silence, in silence

in the most profound

absolute

pure

radical

intoxicating

ambivalent

seducing

silence. 

There is only the whisper of your memory lurking. 

And then there was the sudden discovery of death. 

Oh the glorious, enchanting and brilliance of this sunset. 

Where has man to go to lose in his day?

His oceans are here, his beaches are afar. 

Where are the glorious tangents of despair?

Those lovely blemishes, those curving trenches?

My loss and my utter dampening glare,

here I am at the eclipse of my perils. 

There is then here and forever, a sudden silence. 

Till death do us apart. 

And in heavens, 

Yes in heavens

shall be created new time. 

Where mine mind is mine,

its dwellings are so inclined

that belonging to me is nothing

for again is to be just you and me. 

And in heavens,

yes in heavens,

you and I again, in heavens. 

...and then

there was a fracture in the very institution of love. Its aimlessly flying fragments indiscriminately piercing the lovers who will no longer be lovers. Their world has come to an end, this man has lost his leg. And she, she has lost her everything.

Contradiction is the perfect description of existence, it is THE description of being alive. For what is alive? Alive is that which is living. What is the goal of the living?

The goal of the living is to live. And yet what is the one certainty of the living? That the living are living till they are dead. In that sense, the born and dead are one and the same. Birth and death are one and the same. With birth, the human is united with its goal. It has it. When it starts to live, it moves away from its goal in search of that goal. Before death the human has to stop living. With death the human is united with its goal. This goal is not desired, yet achieved. In fact it is the absolutely undesired and it is still achieved which is why it is of the utmost purity. There cannot be a goal more absolute in purity or in goodness than this goal for it is entirely devoid of any human bias. There is no desire for this goal, the more it is undesired the more purified it becomes and it is guaranteed to be achieved. If it is desired it is still achieved because it is independent of human choice, but if a human chooses it, it doesn't lose any of its purity in comparison to some other goal except a more purified version of itself.

And then in love there was a goal too. But that goal is broken up now and it is decomposing into something else now. Love is no longer, if it ever returns it'll be alien - unrecognizable. In my heart there is only the intensity of the contradictions brewed by the reality of this life. I am at the most pinnacle of my discoveries.