In The Realms of Being Lost

Look around. Everything that you'ev grown familiar of has gone - alienated into shapeless drabs and doodles in a dub-reality - and all you can do is watch as the unfamiliarity creeps up and devours you piece by piece.

Except that you're human, and you realize that soon after - beyond hard drinks, loud music and faceless people. You're human, and it hurts. Increasingly so when it's your sheer stubborness that's threatening to tear you apart.

Against your instinct, you root yourself to the throbbing floor, forcing your eyes away from the source of all the pain, the only consulation being your fast-diminishing need for music. You feel the heat in the air from all the bodies around you. Taking in each beat and scratch, your own mind seems to wonder between the frustrations of your situation and the vertical virtuso of the climbing rhythm.

And then you hear it, atop all the blazing symphony and the roaring commotion - "Run".

The cold water feels like burning pin pricks, and it sends a strangely liberating surge of irony down your heated cheeks - a slap to them would rid you of the lost pride and open the gates to the ultimate release of crying, but pride seems the stronger.

You refuse to cry.

So you return to the fountain of wist, subjecting yourself to more anguish, driven by your desire to sink in self-pity. It is a close fight between disbelief and jealousy within the ring of shame that you've thrown yourself into.

Sinking further, you sought the hard comfort of a wall - an unfailing source of warmth that you've come to make good bed buddies with. Feeling the cold drift into your muscle, you sense the sting that you've used all your energy to hold back.

Everyone around you is having fun, taking the moment onto themselves and drowning in the estacy of time held still, the sway of their lifeless forms taking shape of the music and hurling cheap shots at your cowering frame.

All the principles that you've set for yourself, the values that you've held and stood by - beaten to inexistence by a simple glance, a look at a still-frame insignificant that you've forced yourself to let go.

So you lose all conscious thought, falling once again into a hopeless mess, simply breathing, rotting away with the rest of them.

But before the curtain call, before the eyes shut on the living world you have once knew, you stop and you ask,

"Am I worth it?"