Incompetent in every attempt, that’s the kind of person I am. Imagine how incompetent I’d be, writing alien words. Still, feelings push out and realise themselves into such shapes. Who am I to deny them their right to exist? Pitiful? I feel unreal anyhow. It’s been a while now, that I have became conscious of it, of the fact that I’ve always felt emasculated. Why? For I have lost something precious that I do not remember how to call anymore. The loss made me vacuous. Lost in space, in empty space, and hollowed. Thus, I am emptiness inside emptiness. All my senses are dumb, all muscles numb, as though I never existed discretely. And I was never separately intended, never original. always an attachment, yet aimless, thus incomplete. As what you doodle without any plan and leave there in the blank page, here I am. For I don’t wander but I am lost. No need for emancipation, you are not bearing any responsibility. I am not completely lost; I know I am close. I just do not seem to remember which door.
***
eight days
