Subdued jitters, watery eyes and transfixed mind in the AMs. Ideas begin to transpire, fingers ache to let words run free, but this overrated self-conciousness seems to barricade everything from coming in or out. I’ve been too attached, too occupied with my pride until I could no longer tell whether my feelings are real, or real plastic. Every emotion, acts of mine are perfectly sculptured, monitored. I am worn out from reading, tirelessly absorbing their facades, absent-mindedly readjusting myself every moment my observation differs. What bores me most is my inability to read myself and my ability to deny what had others supposedly read me. I have translated all of them, they had themselves read as magazines, obituaries, speeches, kindergarten books et cetera.
But what about mine?
