a profound sense of loneliness envelops me, as if the subject exists in a world untouched by others, suspended in a vast, empty expanse. there is an undercurrent of despair, a silent cry, a longing for something unattainable, as if the figure or scene is trapped in an eternal moment of yearning. and yet, there is also a sense of transcendence, as though this scene is not just a depiction of suffering but a meditation on the beauty of existence itself, rising above the pain to find a deeper, almost spiritual connection to the universe.

nothing is real except the present, and already, i feel the weight of centuries smothering me. some guy a hundred years ago once lived as i do. and he is dead. i am the present, but i know i, too, will pass. the high moment, the burning flash, come and are gone, continuous quicksand.

i always feel as if i'm struggling to become someone else. as if i'm trying to find a new place, grab hold of a new life, a new personality. i suppose it's part of growing up, yet it's also an attempt to reinvent myself. by becoming a different me, i could free myself of everything. i seriously believed i could escape myself, as long as i made the effort. but i always hit a dead end. no matter where i go, i still end up me. what's missing never changes. the scenery may change, but i'm still the same old incomplete person. the same missing elements torture me with a hunger that i can never satisfy. i think that lack itself is as close as i'll come to defining myself.

if i stayed here, something inside me would be lost forever—something i couldn't afford to lose. it was like a vague dream, a burning, unfulfilled desire. the kind of dream people have only when they're seventeen.

two lovers went to the museum and wandered the rooms. he saw a painting and stood in front of it for too long. it was a few minutes before she realized he had gotten stuck. he was stuck looking at a painting. she stood next to him, looking at his face and then the face in the painting. what do you see? she asked. i don’t know, he said. he didn’t know. she was disappointed, then bored. he was looking at a face and she was looking at her watch. he was looking at a face but it might as well have been a cabbage or a sugar beet. perhaps it was something about yellow near pink. he didn’t know how to say it. years later he still didn’t know how to say it, and she was gone.

i think it could also be argued that self-creation in regard to the mind, is less daunting than through the flesh. the mind has the ability to offer a more malleable and less physically confrontational space for self-exploration, whereas the body often demands a more direct engagement with our limitations, desires, and vulnerabilities and exposes us to discomfort and confrontation with the physical self. the mind’s fluidity allows for more control and refinement, while the flesh - bound by biological constraints and sensory experiences, can often lead to unpredictable vulnerability and existential uncertainty. therefore while both forms can be integral, the intellectual pursuit of self-creation may indeed present itself as less intimidating and a more manageable path to understanding oneself.