Wanderer Ghost

On an impulse, I rise with an urgent need to write—that anticipated moment when the drug's side effects mix with confused erotic desires, my heart racing as it envisions a place.A glass dome, standing in a clearing, where anything one desires can be seen. An allegory for an individual who sees in a world where everyone else listens. It's not an original idea, but it comes from a tacit honesty—evident, undeniable, and recognized.No disguise, no euphemism, no smokescreen. When someone enters the dome, only they see the world around them, yet everyone can see them.

Why? The choice is to witness what one longs for—in my case, a dance. But realizing that this time is spent chasing the impossible, something that cannot materialize by sheer will, breeds dependence on exhausting yet misunderstood care.The result is like a fruit—an urge to share a rare and singular gift, only to have it rejected with aggression. Regardless, calm only comes when it is put into words.

I wonder why I desire something yet condemn it to the point of physical symptoms. I conclude that, though satisfying in imagination, this desire is uncomfortable, avoided. If it were to manifest, the present moment would cease to exist. There is doubt over which is truly worth choosing, but also a sinful certainty that reality is preferable—not just for the ease of personal pleasure, but because it fosters a different kind of experience, one I believe offers more to those around me and holds greater value.