le sentiment du déjà vu

I had an intense sentiment du déjà vu, swathed up like a ball of dust; I shuddered at the mere presence of this paramnesia. Every time I felt as if I had experience an event all over again, I am paralyzed. However, this is different. It is not a sudden consciousness of things past. It is, instead, a grasp of my present helplessness, repeated once again.

Acheron River is never an easy river to travel on. This river of woe brings me ill tidings. It is a journey which I experienced numerous sleepless nights, pondering over the essence of the world spirit and finding no logical answers to the ancient question. Words swell up but if they are not released appropriately, they become gibberish, unedifying and useless to the soul.

I cannot express myself. The minute I do so, I cease to exist.

The lives I take each minute. The air I breathe each minute. Are answers found in the brutality of one's choices and actions?

speak fool, but who will understand you?

Are you, o green man, always on my mind, ceaseless in your torments and tautologies of threats?

When will the hidden personality see light? To take you to the final battle?

I miss my Nemesis, like a baton of light that gives me a reason to continue my resistance; A ball of fire (not dust) to incarnate my feverish passion to unearth the darkest and brightest of secrets. I never cease to stop thinking of you. Do you think of me when the night draws to a close? Do you think of me when the day begins its mundane sequence? Do you think of me when you see the beauty of something only you will understand? Do you think of me when you lack someone to argue for the sake of arguing? I do.

And yet, the distance grows into an impregnable wall I cannot break down.

But who are you? - to have such a lasting influence on me. I cannot shake you off. Physically, yes, at least for now. But always residing somewhere in the hidden tiers of consciousness, you strike me when it affects the most. I am defenseless - against your voice of innocent quality; so soft but it opens up my entire psyche into disarray; confusion but an extravaganza of passion and heated reason. Dialectics does not explain the meaning behind our relation. We are not opposites. But like a crazed rabbit who finds its holes to burrow into, I escape from the freedom of closure, and suspend myself into an entrapment of the other side of future anxiety and unknown possibilities. Such violence to myself whenever I escape.

No writing can express how I feel. No writing can speculate what goes on in your world and who you think of yesterday, today and tomorrow. The thrust of time endangers the presence of the moment. Already, with the chirping of the morning birds, and the sunlight stealing into my room, they remind me of our rotten consciousness of modern time; this lack of a time to forget time and be at somewhere far away from this monotonous human machines, but closer to the birds and the open fields where the sun can just be a sun.

Forgive me, if I should once again use words to proclaim this agony.
It is the agony that writers have - the phobia of not being heard. It is also an agony of having to live with the irony of writing - the phobia of not being heard, but once heard results in the phobia of being misunderstood. Either way, writing alone does not allow us to penetrate into the human psyche.