I had a dream, though it is gone now. And in that dream,
what splendorous things I've seen, I've done.
A utopia of emotions and feelings, such bliss that I had
almost forgotten myself within the dream, and grew so
comfortably sleepy, I wished to live a dream forever. Though
it is gone now, it matters no more, erased from any trace of
memory the moment I awoke, back to reality, to life.
I returned to the safety of my boudoir, my bed, my womb and
tomb.
And then the morning came, silent then ever.    
The sun hadn't even come out yet and my waking world was
still wrapped in darkness. Without opening my eyes I pulled
a cigarette case form underneath my pillow, took out a
rolled join and lit it with a match, then I inhaled, a long
and tired breath of smoke into myself finally opening my
eyes to darkness. The sun did not shine yet and the candle I
left lighted the night before had been extinguished before
totally waning, leaving a black cinder and at least an inch
of solid wax. I snuck a peak to my radio alarm clock, it was
exactly seven seconds before five a.m. I just lay in bed.
Its exactly five a.m. and my radio alarm clock started
playing, I just let it play and thought to myself about the
wonders of modern technology. I loved waking up to the
sounds of music, preferably music I like and appreciate, now
with but a little pre programming this could be easily
achieved daily.  I got up and relit the candle, the moment
light was restored She came, silent then the morning itself.
Still wearing that black velvet dress, form the night
before, beautiful, pale, looking nimble yet fragile like
priceless porcelain. I approached her, she held on to me
with power and I kissed her silk soft black hair.
"What is the matter?" I whispered into her ear yet she did
not reply, she simply took a rolled paper out of nowhere and
handed it to me. It was The Village Voice, and it was open
on a page showing my poetry, recommending my poetry a small
article about me and my poetry and a notice of nomination to
the prestigious Hemmingway awards for literature.
"Now they will buy into your stuff, your books will be sold"
she finally spoke all the time our eyes not meeting, "your
earliest works will be found to one day, form the times you
were younger. You will lie forever in the minds of
thousands, adored forever"
Younger? I finally realized, for the first time I realized
that I am young, and my whole life is in fact ahead of my, I
am but a boy, I thought for the first time in my life, and
yet I am known to people, my name is appreciated by others,
I am young, I am an artist.
"Is it time?" I asked her with realization, all the while we
held on to each other, she finally let go.
"Yes" she looked me in the eyes and said simply to the point
not adding a useless word.
"They say that Byron and Pushkin made it to thirty eight,
hell even Jesus did, its presumed" I plead, "ten years is a
long time, a lot more can be achieved yet, I don't think I'm
ready to depart yet. I think I want to stay longer, with
you. I think I love you"
It is so good to be young; I though to myself, I always
wished to remain young forever and at the same time to reach
the enlightenment and glory of a full-spent life.
"And that is exactly what you will be getting" she read my
mind practically, I stood with my back to her and walked out
of my boudoir, out to the main room of my loft apartment,
while she remained in the room, head tilted downwards in
vital melancholy. I approached the alcohol cupboard, where I
fixed myself with a glass of Absinthe, which I then drank
traditionally, though lacing the sugar cube with Laudanum,
then I looked out my window to a commercial view of some
central square, in some bohemian neighborhood of some city
that sold itself a long time ago to Sony and MacDonald's.
Commercial posters and gigantic billboards; I closed my eyes
to escape it only to have a gruesome vision appear in my
mind, of the Eiffel tower, all rusty standing in the middle
of a junk yard with a neon sign saying Citroen covering it,
a fragment form a nightmare I could not forget. Globalism,
the demise of culture... only a new hope, for a new
generation of young idealists, who at this very moment are
sitting in some cafe or an intimate lecture room all around
the world and writing articles, discussing solutions and
acting to restore a dying world hoping to revive the old
ideals of culture and art at its finest.
"And you lead this revolution, this wave. You are the human
inspiration, you are the concept" she stood facing me under
the bedroom door lintel, out of which soft old rock music
was pouring, she put on Bob Dylan on the stereo ironically.

"Your writings, will be read by all those young men and
women, and will be a manifesto to a new revival, you should
be proud of yourself" she kept on.
"Does it matter anymore?" I asked her, "now that I found
also a personal meaning for myself as well, love, you know"
"But you knew what was to be the outcome" she persisted,
"fate was pre-ordained and you agreed to it, you asked for
it". But I wouldn't let go of an argument, which I was good
at.
"That was because, I was full of myself, and never quite
realized my own personal meaning in life, I had not
experienced true love and emotion" at this point the
argument moved into my den, where I sat at my beautiful
antique desk, over a block of paper and an ink well I
started writing some random thoughts that came to mind:
love, emotion, departure, disappointment sacrifice, a gothic
cathedral, Lady Luck, cupids arrow, the way moonlight falls
over the sea of Galilee, Montparnasse at night, Opium...
this is just something I liked to do, simple random
brainstorming, when I felt I had nothing better to do, yet I
felt a storm brewing inside my mind. She positioned herself
right atop my table and looked into my eyes piercing through
any emotional barrier, I knew I couldn't avoid her much
longer
"No love, no emotions, only ideals only strict naivete,
always believing I know everything, thinking I could
actually modify people around me for the better, my vision
of what better is. Foolishly thinking I could do so, should
do so" I looked up to her form my position sitting on the
chair, since she was on a higher plane then me, sitting on
the table cross-legged like an oriental divinity, blocking
my paper block with her legs waiting for more.
"Then you came into my life, as cliche as that sounds. You
gave my delusions life, you gave me inspiration and
direction, but more then that you filled me with emotion." I
finished my plea
"But you were right, apparently you can influence, as long
as you're young and you have true faith, you can, you did,
anyone could. Youth is such a blessing, it gives one a
future, and you knew how to use your youth for the best
creative use"
I stood up form my seat, she hopped off the desk to embrace
me in her nimble hands. I opened one of the drawers, and
took out a pipe.
"I need some time to think it all through again, les retire
to the living room" I asked her, we came out to the living
room holding hands, I stuffed my pipe with some cannabis
weed, and sat down in a leather armoire, She sat right in
front of me, while I smoked. I relaxed and I could see She
had a tear in her eye, I never though She could actually
cry, why would she? Thoughts were flowing in my mind: can I
really reconsider? What was the use of staying? I already
took one step too far to ever back down, I had to go through
to accomplish something, or else did it all mean something
to anyone but me?
I regained my wit and when I looked at the old clock up on
the wall I was astounded to find out it was drawing towards
midday.
"I need a drink" I said quietly to myself.
"I'll fix you up, your usual poison?" she said wittily
"Yes, darling, and make it quite literal, you know exactly
how I prepare it"
"I know, your Absinthe. The heroine of the nineteenth
century, you always were quite melodramatic," we both
giggled at this. She brought two glasses out of the
kitchenette, with two spoons and sugar cubes, and a bottle
of turquoise liquid.
"Can you bring me that little glass bottle out form my
medicine cabinet please?" I asked her, and she did so
without saying one word. I set up the needed ingredients,
put the sugar cube up on a teaspoon balanced horizontally
over a glass of Absinthe, so did She, only I dripped a few
drops onto the sugar cube form my little medicine bottle, I
burned the sugar as necessary and mixed it all into the
glass, the liquid was filled with small bubbles as I mixed
it all seemed so hot while the drink was actually ice cold,
and the vision of warm bubbling couldren became a vision of
snowflakes whirling in a green sky.
"Didn't we say Pushkin made it to thirty eight?" I brought
back an old topic
"He did, so did Byron, Jesus Christ died around the same
age" she added
"Yeah, John Lennon didn't last much longer either, great
minds seem to vanish quickly" I mourned more myself then the
aforementioned figures.
"Now, one could say that you reached no less a reputation
and achieved no less, if not even more in some aspects" she
faltered my ego.
"But I'm ever so younger, give me some more time, just to be
with you"
"I can't" she turned her eyes away form me, "you can't. If
you really meant all you ever said, all you ever wanted, you
will depart and become the catalyst of this new cultural
revival, the catalyst and prophet for what is to come after
you"
"But, why so soon?" I insisted on knowing
"It's your predestined path"
"Destiny is made by ourselves," I claimed
"Did you not create this path for yourself?" she asked, but
answering was futile, I knew she didn't need an answer as
she asked it rhetorically.
"So what can I do?" I asked instead of replying.
"Nothing, but what you do best, write..."
I put down the emptied glass on the coffee table and rose
form my chair; I took her by the hand and we were standing
in front of each other again. The bedroom was playing Chopin
while out of the large main window of the living room
section sounds of a busy city came pouring in, it all mixed
and mingled in my mind... another hour passed, I was now
fully dressed, wearing my finest tailored pants, held on by
a leather belt, I put on a white silk shirt with a tie in a
Windsor knot, a vest above the shirt and the finest suit
jacket atop it all. The bed was made, and all glasses
washed, rooms aired and lights out. She was wearing her
black velvet dress still. I took her by the hand. The clock
said its six in the afternoon. Allthough it seemed much
later, since twilight was coming down again, it actually
felt as if a few small hours passed since the morning.
"I am ready..." I said, then She finally gave in to herself,
she held me tightly in her arms and embraced me closer to
her body, our lips met in an exchange of passionate emotion,
I closed my eyes and the last thing I saw was a pile of
paperwork on the coffee table behind her, a new, last
masterpiece by the departing artist. A vision came into my
mind again, this time a fine one, another dream. However
this dream was forgotten, I saw a young child, a teenager.
Standing blissfully in the middle of a crowded darkened
area, not a worry on his shallow mind. Music all around him,
fast beat electronic sounds, and colorful flashing lights,
it seemed he was underground, people were dancing all around
him and socializing, there was a young girl to. I know that
girl; I know them both actually, an ignorant youngster
searching for his version of happiness, in happiness.
But when did I really meet You?
A few years ago when I left my home and settled here, or
maybe it was long before than, when I just started thinking
and giving my thought life on paper and in reality. Did I
meet you one night out, and ever since that instant I knew
exactly Who you are, and at the same time remained ignorant
to your nature. You found me and not the other way around. I
saw everything in you, and you saw in me potential for
everything. Like a game to get emotionally attached to. For
the common good though.  
Without saying a single word, you offered to me everything I
ever wanted and everything I did not know I wanted. Because
you knew me, that's how you found me, you were always there
form the start, in every faint memory of emotion, in every
girl I though I liked. And then I knew who you were
Love, Muse, Death.
I took comfort in what I knew to be the truth; I knew that
all She promised would eventually come true, I was not alone
in this, not the first; not the last. It always does fulfill
itself as She promises, the faith, the belief and ideals,
they never just vanish they survive. Moreover, they outlive
their creators, like an unseen monument to their existence
to become a constant truth, a landmark to guide all those
who would come after, who would sustain it and support its
cause.
Thus my deepest wish came true, I have been granted with all
that I ever wanted to achieve; eternal youth, enlightenment,
nirvana, maybe even true love, finally I realized the true
meaning of existence and learned to appreciate life.  
It's true what they say:
'One learns to appreciate and understand something fully
only after he loses it completely'  
And I am happy.