it's not strange to be merely a mute eye without reflexive capacity. everyday i sit before myself and wonder how i manage to speak without ever hearing any voices, neither mine nor anyone else's. but it seems it is far too complicated, far too absurd, far too far to be involved in a conversation, in an interrelated whole. maybe that is not what is of importance. expressing is perhaps that which is more distant to my nature, there is no way of knowing how much i've missed of myself by pretending to portray emotions through a simple stroke of a brush: only to come to the conclusion that there is nothing more to a drawing than the drawing itself. no content, no revelation of anything, no secret significance to the disposition of what has been, in a way, disposed of. and perhaps i have taken refuge in a puddle, in a watery grave that doesn't suit me, that doesn't appeal to me. for i have found words to be more of a complication than a solution. i am not meant to write, i made that choice but i didn't stick to it, the inconstant nature of the geminian border-line conscience... what wonderful times i had imaging my concepts, what peace of mind brought by being stranded in the realm of graphic. but it is true i have no stories to tell, i have no words to express and i have not much to say about anything. i have decided to remain silent while speaking. it doesn't really matter. none of this is really being said. i thrive in learning, but not much can be learnt if there is not a way of getting it out, not much can be understood if there is not a sense imposed by the uttering of an affirmation. this is not supposed to drive to a conclusion, this is not supposed to make something better out of me, it is not even supposed to make something of anything, then, why keep doing thins? why keep struggling? why keep saying and not hearing? a choice is a choice, and much more than that. blind and deaf, solipsistic, self-retained, self-absorbed, self-refused.