There are so many things that I wish to say, but there seems to be a distance between what I think, dream and what I say, speak to others. It’s as if I’m an actor in a play; always saying the right lines, but never knowing exactly what the lines mean. It is a strange thing to have the intellect to dissect itself: like a creation which destroys itself in the process of inspection. It is the epitome of self-destruction. I am mere thought, and I thought merely more of myself, but, I am just a piece of matter which matters never more; this is a piece of peace for the pieces drifting away. Sometimes, I get lost in translation–lost in a flow of words and rhymes and thought–that I get sidetracked by the story that goes on in my head: there’s hundreds of roads to traverse, and, I find myself wandering; pondering like some forgotten lunatic. Everything goes back to me being a dusty book on an ancient shelf, where I am nothing more than words, thoughts forsaken, trapped in the restricted section where no one ever cares to look. It is a sad existence to live for today only to hope tomorrow never comes.