To live, I’ve broken through the surface of a stone. The stone is me, the rigid part of my own self. I destroyed a self to create a self, more like a sculpture.
I let every colored feeling pile on me, flowing together as a thick black liquid. I enjoy this state, for it is like a mould of stoical repose.
As stains drip down, my previous identity is overshadowed. Exposed to manifold strata of my mind, this selfhood is what I made out of a given chance, to harness my own strength. Everything that killed or kills me is what makes me feel alive.
My identity is not what you see, for it isn’t one-dimensional. My reflection is a surreal visage. Not every viewer can comprehend me, and I wish it remains that way.