I'm a piece of me

Defining myself is very difficult. Sometimes I seem ordinary, sometimes singular. That's who I am: walking metamorphosis. Teenager in crisis. Crises. Of everything you can imagine. What do I value most in the world? friends. The best feeling? Happiness. The best verb? Love. I know part of a sentence, I don't know the author, but it defines who I am: living is trying to be happy. It's what I do: I live. And yes, I consider myself a happy person, despite everything. After a fall? I get up and move on. I gave up counting the thousand and one outs I throw. I live in search of many things, but I already have the main one: joy. A company? Books. Something that makes you happy? Once again the precious friends.

Well, I'm going to put an end to the ridiculousness of my very brief description with a question of mine, and a fantastic answer, which fits perfectly in my case.

Who am I?

"Am I a am I a question?"

Am I a question?, so I'm afraid to describe myself. It's very dangerous. Those who tried, know. Danger of messing with what is hidden - and the world is not afloat, it is hidden in its submerged roots in the depths of the sea. To write I have to place myself in the void. It is in this void that I intuitively exist. But it is an extremely dangerous void: I draw blood from it. I am a writer who is afraid of the trap of words: the words I say hide others - which ones? Maybe say them. Writing is a stone thrown into the sea, but sometimes I'm at rock bottom

when I'm there Time passes too quickly and then too slowly,

the life is so short. So — lest I be swallowed up by voracity

of the hours and the news that make time pass quickly — I

I cultivate a certain boredom. I enjoy every hateful minute like this. and cultivation

also the empty silence of the eternity of the species. I want to live many

minutes in one minute.

 

Emptiness has the value and likeness of fullness. One way to get is not to seek, one way to have is not to ask and just believe that the silence I believe in myself is the answer to my – to my mystery.

If you were foolish enough to ask yourself “who am I?” it would fall flat and flat to the ground. It's that "who am I?" causes need. And how to satisfy the need? The questioner is incomplete.

My strength is in solitude. I'm not afraid of stormy rains or big blowing winds, because I am also the dark of night. Though I can't stand hearing a whistle in the dark and footsteps.

I want to accept my freedom without thinking about what many think: that existing is madness, a case of madness. Because looks like. Existing is not logical.

It's better that I don't talk about happiness or unhappiness – it provokes that faint, lilac longing, that perfume of violet, the icy waters of the gentle tide foaming over the sand. I don't want to tease because it hurts.

(But who am I to blame the culprits? The worst thing is that I have to forgive them. It is necessary to reach such a nothingness that I love indifferently or do not love the criminal who kills us. But I am not sure of myself : I must ask, although don't know who, if I must really love the one who killed me and ask which of you would kill me. I die later. If so, so be it.)

I will go where the air ends, I will go where the great wind howls loose, I will go where the void bends, I will go where my breath takes me.

but I will sin to say that