I’ve lived 20 years in which there are almost 15 years of education, 10 years of musical education and more than a hundred years’ worth of films, writings, drawings and anything else that makes a human one of its kind. Memories, experiences – everything borrowed from somewhere else. Yet still, they have become an enormous part of me and how I vision the world.
The way I see the world, is similar to how a reader sees book characters – so not really see, but sense. Everything I am, can be taken together shortly: I am the words, the ink and paper. And a story that is lost to the world.
I collect words, books, already written-down stories, at the same time trying to create what is completely mine. It drives to insanity. Especially, since it’s so difficult to sense the borders between the two worlds. But still I lean on the home-learned idea that there is no greater treasure than books.
I’ve got everything what I’ve wished for – starting with books and finishing with places and people. But I’ve given away so many pieces of myself that I hardly even am. And if there is no me, what is there? Honestly, I don’t see any importance on that. The world still turns, its suffering melts together with mine. I am the world and vice versa. For the glory of humanity. And so on and so on.