The Strange Face of Love

This is the world and myself as I see them today. This two lines I wrote after I finished everything that you will henceforth read and, even now, I feel that I wrote nothing or an incomplete something.

I once felt an unexplicable power, the power to do things my own way. I once felt that the human capacity is only 1/6th of my capacity. I simply felt that I could do anything just by thinking of it, and for a time, everything went well for me.
The first time things started moving another direction I noticed while writing. There was no substance in what I wrote, no inspiration, no easy fluence. That is when I began to be ripped into small pieces and left out into the nothingness of the New Universe. Had I not seen everything? Could I have not been able to forsee everything? I now have the certainty that I was never right, but neither was I ever wrong.
So what happened then? What happened that shook my whole existance and meaning in a matter of days? I could not tell then, and I can't be sure now, but I've seen love doing devastating things. I've seen love destory people to the core. I've seen love infiltrate under the skin and eat everything inside, leaving just a hollow shape behind. You could really see these people, shadows, outlines without filling. Simply talking to them would pull your heart out. It's only when love starts feeling like true pain and it starts hurting like nothing before, it starts hurting being awake, that's when you know and you start realizing, and that's the one moment too late. Nor sleep nor alcohol will help you now, though they might ease you pain. For love is a flame and, like any other burning thing, it fucking hurts.
Not aware of any of these, I continued my life of self-reliability. And for a time, it worked. When love starts to infect you, you first start feeling small holes inside which must be filled. Filling them is the real challenge, something that could change you forever, as I now realize. Some choose to fill them with hate, some choose to fill them with plastic love, a self-induced love which, in retrospective, is as insignifiant as an ant in the Milky Way. I started filling them with happy moments - this is the worse thing you could do when you get infected. Just a higher scale from which you would have to sometime fall.
And that's what I did. I climbed, higher and higher, trying to escape, trying to reach everything I lost, thinking that, somehow, I fell below them. The truth is, as I can now state, unblinded by that foolishness, is that they are somewhere behind, trapped in time, in a place of no return. Trying to go back would only create a paradox. You can go back to a time in which you were someone, only to get there as someone else. I don't know if you understand.
The real mistake I've done is run away. Run away from my feelings, try to somehow hide them, burry them away. This ultimately rendered me as less of a human, with only the idea of living, a simulation of existance. Never has it been so hard to cry, though so necessary. Repulsion comes during the introspection, and from so much hate and disgust, I start neglecting my own self. That's how the altruist was born. I died so many times that I can barely call myself alive. I'm just a walking absence.
In the clarity of things, I was permited to see all this. By embracing my sickness, I started contemplating not upon a cure, but upon a symbiotic way of living. Love is permited in my life, but I give it minimum interest. I find this... well for me.
So why this, I now ask myself? I don't believe that everything has a reason, nor that everything has a meaning. I don't even believe that all the lines will meet in one or more points. But at least one of the many things that turned me into the less of a human-less of a monster I am today must point towards something. I tried with creation. Maybe this state in which I am will help me write or draw. I will let you judge that, I remain skeptic. If it's not this, then maybe this state is not made for the present, but for the future. I tried with past, it only helped me get this far. So what about the future?
We were shown to be mistaken considering time and space as a simple liniar string. I agree. I think that everyone is defined by his own individuality, thus everyone has his own time and space. The whole world, the Universe is as big as each and everyone's world is. Well, maybe not the Universe. So I thought of a braid. Everyone has his own string. Everyone crochets his own way, until they meet with another string. This is how braids are made. Try to pull one string out and the whole fabric rips apart. That is why I will clearly state that retrospective can be done only passive, inactively, without trying to change the past or the way in which you've done things but merely work with what you have inhereted from you past self, as agreed upon earlier, a totally different person. In the same time, future has the same certainty as something that has not yet been knitted. You can only imagine the design, the colors, the material, but never the end result. It all depends on the other strings.
Following this idea, giving up the idea of the birth of a genius creator, giving up the idea of travelling backwards in time, or forward into the future, giving up the idea that there even is something as past and future, I started chasing my own tail. I'm a spinning elipsoid motherfucker in a world of strings.That can't be right. But until now, until I learn something else, until my disease is cured (in this writer's opinion, hopes of a cure are naive and quite dangerous) I will continue pursuing something that is not there. I will not be running away, but I will be running around. I will be doing this alone or, to a certain extent, with whoever wants to run around. This question will still remain: Why have I become what I am today?(not the reason but for what reason)
But I am as sure as the devil's tail that I will be doing everything in this great shadow that love is.