Sudden moments of surrender are bestowed upon me in the quietness of the night, in the stagnancy of silence. When there is nothing left to think about, the soul awakens, experiencing life like a child, as if it is reborn every night in the midst of the calm.

The day wearies the mind; the night wearies the heart.

I don’t know whether I was truly free, or if it is merely a joke the mind plays on me. I don’t know whether I was ever truly after something, or if it was my ego aiming to identify itself with the grounding of life’s absurdity. Abstract—was it? Perhaps. But nonetheless understandable.

Is my ego something separate from me, or is it something I ought to live through? I cannot seem to distinguish life, existence with or without it.

I was told that I would become great, or that I was in fact great—but who told me such a story? And what even is greatness? For I perceive myself escaping everything that leads to alleged greatness.

What is greatness? Is it something universal that everyone understands, or rather something different for each individual?

Freedom, devotion, greatness, mindfulness, existence, nothingness, love, and apathy.

I have learned that duality is an illusion, yet I find that I swing between extremes of the same line—of the same definition, yet opposite in the same manner.

I have learned that reality is what you make it to be, but what if one never learns? Is he bound to a life of illusions, of a false truth? Or is truth different for every individual? Quite separating, I would say.

If we were one, how come we experience life so differently? Almost as if we were given completely different lives—which we have.

At times, I forget that I am human. I think only of matters beyond human existence. Yet once again—thinking is very human.

This cannot be what life is. This cannot be what humans are.

At times I am too indulged in questioning my humanness, existence itself, that I become alienated from being human. Yet I cannot be a god either. A god knows and remembers that he is a god. I, on the other hand, am lost between the simplicity of being a mere individual and the divinity of my being.

I can neither understand what I was made for, nor enjoy the process of finding out.

This is not meant to dwell on the human condition or existential dread, but rather the questions one must ask before becoming another individual—or another being altogether.

Nevertheless, all I truly yearn for is the beauty of being a complete human within myself. That, I presume, is success.

I feel that my soul has held me to such high standards that I cannot go back to being a child ever again. Perhaps I am already a child, for you cannot become something you already are, eh?

Or is it a dying dream that I’ve deluded myself with, to escape the intersection of worlds I found myself imprisoned in?

I think the secret is not to become anything, not even to try to become anything, but rather to let yourself become everything.

No… that is not what I wish to say.

The secret is to not be anything.

I have always identified myself with poetry, art, intuitive writing. Yet I find that much of my writing is analytical.

Flow state versus metacognition.
Femininity versus compulsive control and the need to understand.

Perhaps that is not true. Perhaps it is.

I enjoy writing best when I simply write—good or bad, scandalous or vague. I enjoy it best when I do not care, when I am as vulnerable as I wish to be.

However, I have found that writing becomes a chore when I try to control it, when I write for another before writing for my own self.

Analysing was never for myself, but rather an attempt to become a well-functioning being, in order to perform better.

Maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to heal myself, to change myself, if I were the only spectator of my own life. Maybe I would love myself exactly as I intended to be.

Maybe I am in the most poetic state of my writing, yet it cannot manifest because I keep wishing to be something I currently am not.

Perhaps the reason I hide is because I need not justify what goes on inside my mind or heart. I can simply experience it, write about it, make it poetic in the way I see fit.

That’s it.

That’s it.

Perhaps I ought to stop perceiving myself through the eyes of the world, and instead through an empty stage where the only spectators are every version of myself that has ever existed.