I don’t rightly know myself anymore and I wonder if I ever did. The confidence once so strongly, so arrongantly held, broken down and pieced together again, into something different, something less felt or less secure. A shell of a former shell. Hiding deep, deep down a small, unchangable core.

Was the space in-between always so infinitive? A fate so insurmountable? Was I always meant to be this ghostlike? Made of flesh and blood but always hovering in-between objects, decisions, people?

Like people of fiction are fleshed out and layered between pages of paper and words, on screen of sound and projection. Grasped and bought like the books they have been born into but only understood through imagination and with no bodily life of their own, bound to the words that take them ahead.

And so my life is not lived in one moment, one place, one body, but in a wide array of times, places and bodies. I stall life; too bright and too real to be lived and understood and encompassed in its fullest. I close myself off and sink down, deep down into other dimensions, and fool myself as long as I am able.

Why should I rob myself of the ability I possess better than anything else, even though I may not ever be able to show it to other people? And why should I do it for other people?

Should you always reveal your treasure to others? I believe not. Some treasures are not meant to be found but to remain a mystery in thought only.

Let this one be mine until the end of my days and let others frustrate over its deliberate concealment until the end of their days.

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