We are Fiction

I am thinking and my thoughts are alluring he says. He says I am dignified with my kind of words. But who does know the fact that my unshielded and unarmed thoughts are linguistic, they are mingled and mingled and intermingled. My mind is a graveyard and he, my friend is the garland. He does nothing to me but he lets the yard know that I exist, all the time. He brings the color in his hand and cologne in his shirt. He sits beside my dead mind. Because he knows death is not the end. In fact, he told me that I am not dead and if I am, then he loves me for this difference that keeps me disparate from the crowd.

He was writing himself on my barely covered corpsed mind but he was not even concerned about the leaned linen cloth which covered the bare skin pellucidly.

We were sitting in the crowd but because I was a cadaver in my mind, I was crowded with only him because he knew that I existed.

"You exist not because you breathe, you exist because they could feel the warmth of your breath on their cold palms."

But he, my friend, was an ambiguous portrait of confused serenity. Therefore, he loved me ALWAYS irrespective of the times he lost his breath and regained to live me again and again, which is not possible in the real world. So we did it there, beyond time.

We breathed together. We accepted the dead and we lived the death. We breathed ignorance and we knew that ignorance is death itself.

Yeah, we are fiction, read us.