I don’t know anything other than wriing. This is what I have been doing for the longest time ever. This is what I return to when everything else disappears, leaves me alone. This is what I have been trained to do. This is all I know. This is what I always wanted to do. But I ask myself often why haven’t been doing this if it matters to me so much. I haven’t written in a year or so. Made space for everything but this. Why? Did I not have enough time to do it? Did I not have enough things to write about or did I not care enough for my own self? I think the last one is somewhat true. I hardly ever do things for my own self. Why is it that then I complain? Have I been programmed (in modern day jargon) or destined (in ancient jargon) to comply? Why is it that every thought that I ever have is about another person rather than it being about me myself? And then someone calls me as portraying as the injured, devious. Really? I wanted to tell him good now that you have seen beyond the façade why don’t you get lost somewhere. But then the unforgivable happened and I asked myself whether I am devious, plotting, scheming, manipulative person? The answer is there, but I am not really making he effort to listen to it with all my heart. Why, you may ask. I don’t know. I am trying, half- heartedly though, but I am trying nevertheless.
It is not easy to hear unpleasant things about oneself whence you doubt that they may contain some truth.