The essence of something long forgotten.

By a degree of longing, each of us in turn have had vivid flashes of what we yearn to be. Be they illusions of grandeur or obsessions, we've all gone through that phase in life.

A phase in which we know what railroad tracks will lead to where no matter the specific number carriage we hope on or the intricate lines of the tracks that look all too similar to one another.

My obsession was with my writing. I was never certain as to who had said this, but it was certain that I held on to it like a babe suckling on a teat.

"Music is my mistress and it plays second fiddle to no one".

Writing was my mistress and prior to this played second fiddle to no one. Yet, for the better part of my stay in this company, she (writing) was a cantankerous whore who slept with anyone and everyone and in turn could be found underneath the covers of the beds of strangers.

Ever since we moved here, my love and passion for her had diminished. She was never mine, and yet for all the life of me I still considered her my one true love.

I found her in the back alleys of scriptures, in the empty brothels of a feature and in the beds of the editors who vilified her against me and abused her in an attempt to make her their own.

I'm losing her. Her once true warmth that seeped into my every bones feels so ancient and distant as if she has aged and matured beyond her years and my grasp.

In the past, she was my mistress, where passions of old played a part in my life, I would always come back to her each night. She would smother me in her bosoms and love me with all her passion. She would envelop me in the throes of love making and sweep me off to distant lands in the only way she could.

Now she has gotten lazy, like the back alley whore that wishes only for men full of desperation to take her in the same alley she was conceived by the bitch of a mother before her.

Long gone are those distant lands, long lost are the intricate scents and smells of fruits and foods and the sounds and sights of the harsh gravel under our feet from the beaches we used to make love on.

Lost are the heavy sound of typing my fingers used to play on her skin.

The whore has taken leave of the love I gave her. She seeps through my fingers in a last ditched attempt to escape the harsh quarters I keep her in and break free of the bonds only to find salvation in the bosoms of a matron mother that only knows a straight road.

My mistress is almost lost to me. Yet, I will try to gain her trust again that she may allow me to make sweet melodies and visit lost planes of existence once again.

My whore and my bitch will return to me.