and not one of them you shall bother. things, collected from the public sphere, are, essentially public. it matters not that you have made private your thoughts, who knows how long, but once they are out, they’re out. no need to burn the evidence of its existence. you can only fade, or pave, your way, towards dying, towards non-existence, towards decrying god, or slowly dif-f-u-s-e yourself into the ground, return return, return to earth, our mother grave, the plot of dust and soul (ha ha), but before you begin all that, the past remains as it was left as is to begin with. try to erase, to riddle, to put a shroud on it, or to deny – ah denial our most familiar friend – , nothing shall come out of it. only our memories and perception of them change, in an endless perforation that continues to choke us till the day we die. exorcise these ghosts! exorcise our mini gods and goddesses! we need to be rid of them entirely, but no, that would never happen, kan?
but more importantly, not everything is about you. nothing is ever directive, unless we array ourselves towards you. one would not act or jump or fly or perform without a motive in view. unless, well, we are merely, entertaining ourselves to no end with all this mental games. nothing is ever personal. i am the most impersonal person around. because i value nothing of myself – perhaps – only this malleable brain. words are our playground. the avenue to play around with the different toys and tools present, to use them at our will, laugh among ourselves and mostly our own self, whenever we feel like it, heedless of the adults prying constantly eyeing us. we never seek to perform, to be judged, because nothing is ever constant, and to be stopped and pointed out and singled out, and tell us, “play”, aaah, stupefied, a child would run run run and never return again. he will seek another playground.
let us roam freely.
perkaraperkara 