What purpose does a poet have if nothing tickles his nerves nor carves in his dreams to awaken an intense passion or ache? What will the words that he spit through his trembling joints mean? Will these melt and fly away with his own sighs and doubts?
What happens when hurt and passion are pulled by gravity through the tunnel of meaningless memories? But what if the truth is still irrevocable and tattooed on his fingertips? What if the scar is still fresh enough to remember him that life is not a fluke nor an easy illusion?
What does it mean, when a poet has no more words to drain his nightmares? What about the disguised ghosts that harass his dreams and boycott his peace at every sunrise?
How can a poet move on when invisible chains hold his passionate blood from being pumped through his body? How can he break this thousand mile chain that is now immune to his most powerful antibiotic, words and tears?
What is the purpose of a poet then, if he is dead alive, with no alive passion that can move his hands, yet a plain nostalgia that still tricks him into love?
José Andrés Arvide