Purple haze

I don't know if it happened during daylight.
I don't even know which day it was.
It was just the moment that mattered. It was the haze of now that wove its loose yet impenetrable web around the two of us, even though dozens were in the very same room. It did not matter. It was the intagible entanglement of two; the undisputed beauty of a couple that would meet the first time.
That was me and you, with the web around, and the promise of intangible turning into tangible.

What a fucking failure.
Oh, I got no fancy words for that. You can't say it was solely a failure. You got to make it more vulgar. People don't care about failures; they only care about fucked up failures. And hell, we excelled in that!
Eventually there was something we excelled in.
Oh yeah, baby. We did. I'd love to blame only you, though. Yet, we did it. Oh, your name? You are saying I can't remember your name? That might be true, actually. I gave you names all the time, that was fun. But I can't recall your name. Were you one person? When did it happen? My first year in Eger? Second? Third? Has it happened every single damned year? It might be the case.
How pitiful.

Dear Reader! Don't blame me. As a sentimental creature, I do enjoy the seductive, elusive phenomena of the purple haze. And I'm surrendering for it over and over. Do you remember the story of Achilles? Upon his birth her mother, Tethis dipped the baby into river Styx which flows through the domain of the dead, granting his child invincibility. Well, she did forget to dip his son twice, thus his ankles were easily exposed to harm and which, eventually caused the hero's fall. Using a clumsy comparison, my mother (aka. Anna) dipped me into the unknown river of self pity, made me bath within the waves of frailty, threw me down the foams of insecurity, and then dried me above the geyser of tenacity. Big difference is, my mom didn't forget to exclude any body part while these moments of early-age child abuse, so practically I've become a life-size, walking and talking Achilles heel.

And then you were there, sensed this product of an unfortunate constellation of the stars, and without learning that his name is Peter, you already knew that your hypnotic gaze would be too much for him to handle. I mean, you could have even farted the purple haze, I'd have still fallen for you.

Oh, yes. So I did.

But the thing is- my mother must have concealed it-, I was also thrown into the ocean of obstinacy. Hell, I enjoyed it! And now, with all the woe and self-pity you induced,
I'm finding peace through stubbornness.
I'm finding Her through this mess.
Has it happened before? Is it happening again? The pattern repeats itself, so the labels don't matter; only the trajectory counts. And the direction is upward.

Leading out of the haze.