Surrealism

A self-philosophy only because of being related to myself, not because it's actual philosophy.

Because I think that the sophistication of human minds deserves to be given the chance to philosophize on its own. 

Through the history of human beings, literature has always reflected people's thoughts of their beloved ones, but has anybody ever been in love with a thought? 

Speaking of my abstract universe, I can say that I'm preoccupied with a thought. A thought that dominates my mind, while it's preoccupied with smoke and other heavenly things. Such a surrealistic paradox between smoke and heavenly things, but that's why I can't let go of that thought. It's how its tenderness occupy its oppression and how I cling to it, every time I decide to completely move on.

For the love of that thought, I never regret turning into an abuser. Because no matter how devastating the withdrawal symptoms are, one could never give up crawling back to it over and over again. Surrendering to it starts to be a part of one's attitude, if that one reached for its heavenly core before.

Such an exquisite type of speciality lies in being one of those few ones who has ever been allowed to see the cosmic core unmasked. Because everybody saw the smoke predominant in its soul and occupying its eyes, but I took pride in seeing its genuine bewitching side.

Genuine? Is it, actually, that real or that's just how I sustain its survival?

And why would I keep it alive, if it was hypothetical? 

Supposedly, I might be so selfish that I keep it lingering in my soul so that it makes me feel better about myself. Or maybe I'm just so selfless that I let it suck the life out of me without defending my existence so that I'd preserve it.

And what if thoughts are just the doppelgängers of people in our minds?
Maybe I'm just a repudiated thought longing for survival, while it's not a right of mine, or even a dominating one in another story.