Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
Will it really be me, if I’m not there?
I’m not sure, but I don’t know what else to do. Sometimes I feel close to you when you aren’t there.
Though I will never be a writer, the words allow me to study a certain kind of writing. If I close my eyes I will see my written self staring back at me. If I walk to the lake something will be revealed in the waves frozen up in their certainty. Did I tell you the waves freeze here? I will feel something I don’t actually feel. Then I will fall asleep in my bed like the waves.
Even though I don’t write stories I create them in my actions. I create a feeling I don’t believe in and then I act on that feeling.
Back then it had seemed as if I was living a life after it had already ended. Now I could hardly take in enough.