My soul is deep, dark, and what I fish up is usually unsavory. I write to save my life, not to save face. The words stitch me together and not the other way around. The existential is my aesthetic. I spend so much time deep within trying to cross this bridge before the tug-of-war tears me apart that I forget that I have a surface, that people can observe me. I hope one day that I can afford to observe myself without the bridge threatening to cave in.
I’m uniquely self-centered, just like everyone else. My ego bedazzles me and I mistake it for glitter and glory. My grandiosity deludes and drains me like a ponzi scheme, but I never learn. O Mulki, will you ever learn? Or is your thirst for excitement unquenchable, like a mirage in the desert of your mind? Perish, perish. It’s a long road ahead and your big head is weighing you down my love. Take it easy, your significance isn’t so serious.