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 cafי 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” the 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 naivetי, 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 clichי 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.