day 2

I.

I can't read prose. There is something highly stylised about this form of writing. It can't be taken lightly and you can hardly afford breaks and pauses...It escapes me as soon as I read it. One word after another. One sentence after another. With one, it becomes two. Almost instantly. I have to follow its flow; for better or worse. I cannot be sure until I get to the end. But it doesn't seem to end and here I am, the writer and the reader simultaneously. I am naked to my own device. How sinister is that?! Writing must be the single most frightening thing to do without much physical effort. It is as if I am almost still, working my fingers or hands for my eyes to make sense. I can go blind. But as long as I have the capacity to think, I am already writing the story of my self; creating and destroying myself simultaneously. What we truly see (and we spent alot of time seeing that) is darkness. And I see I blindly. It is one of those profound psychic exercises that I cannot and will not dare to disown for what it can potentially do to me if I were to put it to death; on the stakes, crucifixed or even buried with a ceremonious embalming. Don't underestimate your own power. of being blind, hence we fill the holes with imagination and tremble with excitement, like a boy having toys to proudly show to adult strangers. It is all strange, I the most.