" I'm always here I'm never there, I'm never ever anywhere, because I'm here, and here is where I am... and when I move from here to there, my here moves with me everywhere, and so I'm here, 'cause here is where I'm in"
i wonder what it is like to have the entire spectrum of a single thing, i would like knowing something for what it is and not for what it is to me. but i cannot do such things for i am a mere part of this strange liquefied reality, i am very much diluted in it, i may be no more than what is "known" through these eyes, and if that is to be, then i cannot blend into reality even if i am only liquid, so i cannot know anymore than what is given to me through my very defective apparatus of perception. i hope one day i can face myself in the mirror and not have any pain for being less that what the one with whom i struggle seems to be. i've thought that not recognizing myself in the mirror is some kind of pathological aversion towards the idea of being like someone -even when that someone is myself-, but then i realized that i seem to find myself represented in things different from a mirror. strange things happen to me... the need to continue reading what i had read once before is enormous. as if it were some addictive combination of characters, my eyes cannot escape the lines and graphs of such a story. i know i am here, wasting myself whilst others are striving on the numerous pleasures of life, whilst others are living grandly and getting acquainted with more things that i can think of; i know for a fact i am here stumbling through my own bittersweet flow of un-conscience, that i am here facing what was taken from me by the hand of some other who had the luck to put it into words. what i don't know i somehow cannot care for, and it is too much of life, too much of myself, too much of those whose kind words often make me think that there is not much that i should care for. but i don't know and maybe i cannot begin to do so, for i am too small and too apprehensive. still, i am compelled to become more of what i am trying to get away from trough the reading of that which represents the traitorous path of my pathological inertia; my raging instincts tell me that blood is what should drive me, but the consideration of what has been, and the innumerable pages written over that tell me that blood is not to be my way anymore. no true satisfaction is to come from this reading anymore, no lessons, no commitments, no more unveiled truths are to be found: no more recognition of my helplessness in the lines that taunt me, no more "me" in what i did not do.