My new being can not contain my aging soul , hence the struggle between old and new, between the familiar and unfamiliar, between what's done and what's supposed to be done.
The infinite struggle, the unending Whirlpool of pain and the obsessive need to prove the righteous.

People think it is that way because you made it, but it's that way because you know no other method. Complexity always arises when expression becomes difficult and saying the truth seems inhibiting instead of freeing.
It's like the explosion of millions of small molecules from a weak shell, the shell simply dissolves, the molecules explode and each goes in a different direction according to the strength of projection, friction and other factors.
I sometimes wish I could do that, just become small molecules of something that used to exist, but had no form. Yet, in those small molecules, shape and definition in found. Simple shape, simple existence.

As I write those incoherent sentences, the flower song from 'Carmen' starts to play, as if it's from a distance when it's right in front of me. A longing for an unknown past sweeps over me and I found myself lost in the reminiscing of my ancient soul, when my novelty of a brain has so many things to accomplish.


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