The final existentialist strides

As the last page of the book closes, my eyes melt with the curtain, fog captures my brain. Realizing the layers that separate me from a reality outdoors and the vision inside.
I think of existentialism and naked women on my rocking chair. Very quiet I feel into myself, from my itching skin caused by the absence of a shirt underneath my cardigan, deep under my skin following capillaries, the stream of blood plasma around my body in carefully formed ellipses, until the pressure holds in my lungs, they blow up, my chest heaving abruptly, the air – and other associated emotions – escaping my lips.
It consumes me, fully: the truth. It consumes everyone around me, and yet people still dare lie to me.
I am too intelligent for a lie, and in other terms I do not let anyone insult my intelligence.
Am I too easy because I love?
In all its irony, I saw more shut doors in the last days than in my dreams where a stalker breaks into my home, catches me on the stairs with a smile and before I can even ask with the power of my logic ”Who are you?” kisses me on the lips. 
Rejection, can only strike me hard when there is nothing left to live for. 

Either I am myself, or I live in someone else.
That’s it, nothing beyond, no further greyish options.
You are allowed to be alone, just as I am, if you dare.