There are so many things I would like to say, so many stories I would like to share, so many pain I would like to express. These things are in my head—screaming, boiling, begging to be heard. But I cannot find any more reasons to release them to the universe where I know they would also inflict the same damage that I have sustained.
Sometimes I imagine myself as the vest to a bulletproof man: this weary little jacket which serves to cushion off the assault of bullets. But as soon as I think of such a thought, I banish it from my mind as much as possible, for there is no reason at all for one to think of oneself as a hero at all costs.
Are we not all vulnerable in the face of a reality that is oblivious to the predicaments of man? Are we not all in this great doomed ship that is Life—our hopes a mere life-vest in the face of a mightier danger that is the ocean? And if the human skin is a tough impediment for the waging battles of our souls, are we not better off fighting without our armories on? This flesh, this skin this lingering sensation of bones—are we not supposed to destroy them, to deny them, and to carry on this battle into a realm where nothing is solid and where every attack quickly dissipates into thin air?