,j_art, womans, I picked up a knife.Its blade glistened in the lamp’s light.I charged at his heart.But the pain wasn’t real.I was embarrassed.Empty.It wasn’t death,just a mock death,a desperate attempt to feel something. Where is my angel?-I asked the clouds.No answer.Only silence,louder than any scream.My soul changed roles like an actor lost between stage and life.I was angry.I cried.But even these emotions felt fake.My love,pain,life-all imitation. I stared into the mirror.The face wasn’t mine.Someone else played my role.I tried to remember who I was before pretending.But the memory was silent.Where is my angel?My soul?Where am I? Maybe life isn’t what we feel,but what we choose to feel.Maybe imitation is part of us.Or we’re shadows on a stage with no audience,only silence.Then I realized:We ’re all imitations.But maybe that’s what we are. We lay on the couch.Silence louder than words.We made love,but it wasn’t about feelings.It was about forgetting.I was embarrassed.Awkward,couldn’t tell her warmth from the cold inside.It wasn’t intimacy,just imitation-a performance where we forgot who we were. Under a lilac tree,its scent sweet,almost suffocating.Her lips touched mine.Not a kiss,but desperation.An attempt to find something real in a fake world.I felt awkward.Empty.It wasn’t love,just a shadow-a dramatization to convince ourselves we were alive.