In the chaos of a 24 hour indulgence in the nothingness of life, I sometimes find the door to the parallel universe where everything looks photoshopped into looking like a piece of art. A silhouette stands before me - locks of confused hair that seem to begin straight but end up curly here and there; a body that appears to be carved out of wood and moulded with clay in a heterogeneous mixture and the vision of a soul so hazy and ambiguous, filled with numbers and letters just waiting to be deciphered.

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It's a bubble that follows me around like a shadow of my past. Like a mystical tale, the bubble seems like a hologram with a picture that moves as I turn from side to side and consult my compass. It's a delicate bubble, the kind that has little bubbles slightly perched on to the sides waiting to either enter the bigger bubble or just destroy it in jealousy. In the fear of letting the latter emotion win, I sometimes only barely touch upon the bubble as it leaves me with no hope, a pinch of excitement in a sea of morose serenity, if there was ever something like that.

As I sit in the holographic parallel universe, I peep into the real world and arrange it out in a timeline. As I take a seat inside my mirror and scan through the reflections in the past year. The different arrangements of hair, its metamorphosis from plastic straight to just plain glam, I travel through a tunnel of scents. I like how I can look at a photograph, listen to a song and smell something different, maybe the scent of a man, the smell of rain or the stench of rum and puke.

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Among the many scents last year, I see ups and downs, like a line animated film, two beings just merge with the surroundings, now and then into each other but mostly apart. In some instances, the distance grew too long to meet, but they always came around. At some point they thought the worst is over. It was the story of an army that grew stronger having fought the toughest battles, but just as the saying goes that it can only get better. Well, it can always get worse.

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The songs ran into each other in turmoil, as the mellow tunes of the acoustic guitar ended, a thrashy snare took off but the film of memories played seamlessly. In the many frames of picturesque art that I imagined us to be in the worst of our times together, I always liked the one where two cliffs met. Huge and mighty, reaching into a collage of clouds, the cliffs stood, only half a foot apart. We stood facing each other, our egos fiercely at each other like pit bulls; we kept that distance just to be civil. It was only half a foot, but we never crossed it to be together, it was like the repulsion of magnetic poles. Today I sit here alone as my pit bull looks into the deep ravine and looks at me disappointed thinking "Why were you so scared?"

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It's a horrific feeling to sit in front of your reflection and just watch. To have no control over it. To watch versions of horrendous, adulterous you stare at you in the face. To actually confront that part of you that mindlessly got you here. At some point it seems like Chinese torture to want to never forget the darkness but have no way to throw in a light.

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In the short psychotic film of the story of you and me, a splash of vibrance breaks in as a Scottish tune plays in fast forward, the reel drowns in the a pool of liquor, in a sphere of music, as the bike speeds into us from the wrong direction and I stand up asking for a light for my cigarette. As I suddenly hear tumbling plastic in the steady rhythm of the road underneath. The chili flakes swimming in a pond of grey surrounded by scrumptious rocks of chicken and cartilage. In the folds of hate, tears and violence, submerged in shyness are these moments of marsh mellow, from holding hands to rubbing tummies, from sucking the pain out to wiping the tears.

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As the credits roll, as an audience to my own relationship, I'd think it was only turmoil, too unstable to survive. But having riden the roller coaster myself as quickly as we sped down the lows, we enjoyed the slow, steady rise to the highs. Nothing is perfect and nothing ever will be. But the flaws add beauty to perfection - and as I have held this belief strongly, I must admit. This was fun.