DARK SIDE OF THE MOON.

"There is no dark side of the moon really. Matter of fact it is all dark."

Do you writers go through the same phase as mine? When you know exactly what to write, what is real, but you keep avoiding it so as not to get hurt by its existence? I know exactly what to say, but I don't want to. This phase has happened for quite a long time. If I state it here, I feel like my words will betray me and portrait myself as a helpless person. The more I hold in, the heavier it weighs down on me. What I feel is similar to yours while watching Sherlock Holmes. The more you watch him, the clearer his humanity appears to be. And you start to feel the unreasonable disappointment of a human being being human. Sherlock Holmes should not be considered as a human. I portrait myself as a machine, here and elsewhere. If I mention something too personal, as measured in my consent ruler, I will feel human. That is too close. Many times have I repeated to myself not to give anyone that closure. Yet, sometimes I urge to explain myself.

When I write something, I don't know which is which or who is who. I just write until I stop. The only time I understand the whole thing is when I reread it for the first time. The second time won't be the same. By the third time, I'll learn by heart the details and the surprises, if any.

It's so difficult to write these days. What's left to write? The more energetic I am at work, the drier my soul becomes at night. I can feel something is missing. I know that I'm missing that thing as being empty from it and, missing it. It makes me feel incompetent.

Sometimes I imagine myself having conversations with it. Sometimes I wake up and hope it really did happen. Most of the time, I'm glad it's all in my imagination.

MORPHINE OR COCAINE?

"Morphine or cocaine? Which is this today?

Holmes?"

_Sherlock Holmes. The Abominable Bride_

I woke up to the voice of myself calling me out for staying in the blur too long. I've been there. Morphine or cocaine? Morphine from my dying mother's bed or cocaine from the dying stranger who shamelessly sold it to an underage. It was illegal anyway. I get it now. "Let's make sense to each other." I see it now. The no-expectation claim was a lie. I had my own expectations and I flicked them off the coat like they were nothing. I shouldn't have had any. You were as hurting as a deer suffering from bullet shots. I saw your insecurities so clearly. It's not happiness that you must seek for. It's the thing that can fill the holes inside you. The deer in you once believed and sacrificed unconditionally got hurt severely with only bandaids to cover. You kept bleeding until all those wounds became big, black, empty holes. I was so blind not to admit my expectations and refuse your wounds, those that I could see the first time but too proud to face.

I get it now. Let's make sense to each other. I no longer have any expectations for you. This morning, I woke up to the feeling of relief. I'm finally myself again. This witty, certain, simple man inside of me has recovered. I breathe this fresh, cold air without minding one bit of any matters that ever happened. I wish my eyes could light up as brightly as my perception of "Let's make sense to each other." They would light up this whole short street without the help of electricity. You and I both know once we get too close, the holes will duplicate and expand. I don't want to get more of them, either. You were right. People need time to be alone. In a physical and mental way. Being by our own is the only one true reflection we should see. The rest can be deceiving and mimicking.

Without the waiting and longing, wanting and demanding, there's no ups and downs, no more anger and tantrums. Of course, Hemingway will curse you and I for being such cowards. Hemingway died. Probably very alone and lonely. We will all die that way anyway. Let's make sense to each other. And sense only. The puzzle is halfway solved.