There exists a moment of inspiration on Earth when you cannot hold inside everything assembled in your soul anymore. Your own words written only a second ago bring tears to your eyes. They express everything, life, death, love, supreme happiness, and, by some inexplicable chance, eternal, unsoothable sorrow. Someone loves, someone suffers, while in your own soul the dark ice is frozen with its deadly coldness, like the word on the paper, or the thoughts in a mind, or a genius in his terrible, but inevitable grave. The genius owns nothing, he is soon forgotten, and yet he has everything; he has love, his own love, and the love given to him. Will I ever be able to make my heart love this way so that life and death won't seem to me equally horrible? I guess I will, otherwise what hope would I be following now in still being alive? But in that moment, when the muse, the most terrible and beautiful of all muses called love, visits me, there is nothing more supreme than its expression, even simply on the paper. I guess that's how you feel when your beloved, the only woman in the world for whom you would swim the oceans and cross the fiery lava of vulcanos, shows you for the first time her true love. Virginity leaves you forever, as the first full moon of the spring, once lighting the entire heaven for a shiny night, is doomed to leave the existance; you're hurting, but that hurt is physical. It goes in no comparison with that feeling, the very height of emotions, the end of the world itself, beyond which lies nothing that our poor and at the same time strangely genius human mind is capable of imagining. You're flying in the clouds, in the endless starry universe into the arms of eternity. I guess, that's how it is. I can't be sure, for my own heart is still imprisoned by the unbreakable holds of ice. I'm left only with my words, but the tears running down from my eyes unquestionably bring with them hope. I really am capable of feeling love, even if it is only for the words. I am capable to finding joy and suffering to their beat as a violin finds joy and suffers in the arms of a great genius, whose destiny is to become immortal in his eternity of being forgotten by all the living. And maybe some day the other kind of love will too come to me. But meanwhile, in those moments when the bright passionate sun comes together with the pale yet mysterious moon into one single truly beautiful explosion of inspiration, I feel that I can do anything, even open my heart completely and tell the truth.
Well, the poem I've written (the one I've posted above) got me in a very emotional state so I actually did start crying. And since I really AM obsessed with writing, here is just an example of what happens when I become even more insane than usual. It was actually originally in Russian, and I only translated it now.
