Lust is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Most kings, emperors whose temporal power is of great divinity, in retrospect, failed to defend themselves from it. It launches no substantial raid, but its irresistible mesmerization rids you of any defence, strength and dignity, and its mammoth charm puts behind its bars, making you a prisoner. Once you are fixated on it, you’d better beg and pray if you find it too punitive to tolerate; once you are obsessive with it, you’d better stop moaning and shouting but resort to yourself for help – you are the most horrifying enemy of yourself.

Loneliness is something you have to accept, bowing to the inevitable. It is a token of futility of fraternizing with those who are right at your side, or of clicking with whom you adore. It makes you a pusillanimous weirdo, wearing a mask while interacting. No one knows your situation, no one understands the reason, and no one cares about a thing. You are hiding from every one. Very much alike, you’d better stop crying for aid, because the inventor who designs it is you, yourself. You are capable of unassembling it, but others destroying it.

I’ve been wondering if I dared risk amplifying my lust simply during my period of loneliness, and I thought my forgivable misdemeanor counted for nothing. But I neglect the mutual responsibility that was raised, that puts burden not only on myself. I may either remain in the zone to keep everybody suffocated, or get out of there, abandoning everything, and barely leaving a few drops of tears there. I thought I was playing a game, but it’s a game that I bound to lose.

The Buddha tell us that we are supposed to march to the nirvana; I tell myself that it’s so hard. The Buddha say that we all have a Karma of some sort; I say that I’d like to last my loneliness for another ten years.