I am filled with a passion to write something, but words fail me. My mind's a blank. It's an empty canvas as I contemplate the power of words and images to move, to create, to speak to the depths of one's soul. Is it possible to divest so much of the self, that one's writing and one's image become the self? Yet it is a paradox to say that something else can become the self, when the self does not even know who he is. To know - is that even necessary? We all know who we are, we merely forget, ignore or busy ourselves with a thousand other fancies. In truth, we are afraid to confront the self. For inherent in the self lies the soul and the soul bears the marks of a thousand transgressions, sins and hurts too many to count. Can one dare to look into the eyes of the mirror's reflection, to see beyond the phantasmogoria of light and to see one's soul as it were? Bare, naked and vulnerable? This disturbs us and we turn our glance away. We find things to occupy the self, for if the self is distracted, it need not listen to the voice speaking to it in the still silence. That prompting voice makes the soul afeared and so it busies itself with frivolity. It busies itself to override and block out that voice.

Memory is not the truth we believe it to be. We continually destroy and reinvent our memories so that our lives may appear to be a manifestation of our innermost desires. It is a mere delusion which serves to seduce us and to take our attentions away from what is to know and to comprehend the self. The self, in turn constantly remakes itself, so that it may appear acceptable to the people outside the self. We put on multiple selves to mould ourselves so that we may always belong, so that we may always be accepted. Yet the self also forgets that people judge and people often are unforgiving about falsity.

While youth allows us to get away with folly, youth, unfortunately, like beauty, is ephemeral. It lasts only for a moment and is blown away like the seeds of a dandelion. Transitory possessions, youth and beauty pass by like rattling trains on a neverending journey. Each stop being further away from the other. Who appreciates the beauty of the mind and the richness of the spirit and tenderness of the heart? I am but a destitute. A person desperately clinging on to a torn and tattered paper lantern. Can one find happiness, by indulging the senses? I think in a bid to find happiness, one would more often drown in the mire of the senses. The brain, seeks pleasure like a drug. Pleasure drives it, pleasure excites and ignites the neurons. Pleasure is derived from the self influencing someone else and pleasure is derived when we project our own needs and desires onto someone or something else. These however as they occur, only tell us of their impermanence, of their flirting nature. Their favours wax and wane like the disdainful moon. She has seen too many things and she scorns the fickleness of men.

Sense ebbs further away as I am overpowered by sleep. The human body though magnificent, needs rest too. The mind however great, needs the sweet nectar of sleep. Sleep refreshes. In sleep, we may dream.