The World is redundant. There are no questions, as there are no answers. There is nothing.

If there is nothing, then what is everything?

This is precisely what I mean.

If I stop caring about everything, I start caring about everything.

Creation. Destruction. Creation. Destruction.

If you leave, I will be sad but I will understand, because that’s mainly what I do. I understand. Everything. Everyone.

Even if I try to convince myself otherwise, I know you will never be as in love with me as I am with you, because as much as I try to think that I’m free of everything, I am the most tied down human being in the world, and you are not.

If I am drowning in an endless sea and I see something to hold on to, should I try to grab it? Will I ever really stop drowning? Will this new lifeline eventually run out again?

Creation. Destruction. Creation. Destruction.

If I’m rebellious and artistic, was that something I was born with or did my education make me be like this? Am I really rebellious and artistic? Do I pretend to be? If I started by pretending, where does the pretending end and reality begin? Where does my lying become the truth?

If I have already dared to declare my attraction towards you, is that really the end of my problems? Should I be nervous about declaring my love for you? Is my love for you real, or am I forcing myself to love you? Do I do this often? How do I know if I have ever really been in love?

Our reality is based on mirrors. Without mirrors, we know not that we exist. We can see our hands, we can see our feet, we can see our nose, yet we cannot be sure that we are actually anywhere.

When we move a muscle, we don’t actually think about it. We just do it. How do we do it? What is the difference between thinking and moving a muscle?

I try not to think of the fact, but I know there is a huge obstacle between us. I know I am just a passing thought in your mind. This is the fabricated truth. This is me. This is the me that no one really loves. This is the me that nobody actually cares about. This is the me that I’m so certain is not real.

It would be great if I weren’t real. I’m so tied down by all my questions, so tied down by all my answers, so completely afraid of everything and everyone. So hopeless, so depressive, so unattractive, so hidden, so weak, so stupid, so jealous, so paranoid, so  lost.

Creation. Destruction. Creation. Destruction.


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