Can ye heard me?
The profound words aren’t profound anymore.
Take the word, ‘writing’ for granted..
I was writing to be free from survival..
To face what I didn’t face in real time.
To give opinions on things that didn’t matter much.
It didn’t even happen.. I didn’t bear the weight as the usual people do.

Sometimes I walk down the road and the light in the morning shine while the cold didn’t.
It left the darkness from the house to the world, the front exterior tied to a mask.
I like wearing a mask to hide one’s identity.
Rather just pretend I don’t see under the surface, like I don’t catch a thing underneath..
I don’t live to write what I have to say.. I don’t write, like the bones and skulls aligned with the personality..
I don’t write like anything or anybody as much as the soul crawls to the next individual in front..
I don’t exist to write for joy.. for happiness.. that is existential, but it’s mere existence is gone..
It’s lost and forgotten under the glass windows it hid under.

I don’t show up for happiness..
To be happy with the way I write..
To be productive..
To be foreshadowed by one’s expectations and assumptions.
I consumed those words, but they did nothing to me..
I have joy, but joy is empty to me.
To have joy is to not exist.
To celebrate is to turn down opportunities in their own ways.
I am empty for the epidemic of survival.. I am not to overcome..

I like being in boxes that don’t fit me.
The type of boxes that weaken under pressure.
The type of boxes that become something else..
I have nothing to say, nothing to show you..
Nothing to become, if one has to hide themselves.. it’s easier said than done isn’t it?
No need to answer the question it will follow through in the end..