When will it be over? Or rather, will it be over? Will we be able to see the light? Or will I always be clawing my coffin from within?
What am I waiting for? A new identity? A release? A revelation? An epiphany? A Permission to live? I have been forsaken, and so did I to the world.
I belong in the pencil dust of the history writer. I live in the shadow of the editor’s notes. I am immortally nonexistent. I am the universe before being. I oscillate between dream and oblivion. I am less than an idea, Literate, Unheard. The bastard is my father. The neglected psychopath is my mother. I have been identified with my rapist. Kafka was right. I pretend to live his life. He is as big as my dream can be.
Listening to a forgotten immigrant song writing my identity, I weep
I weep writing, I weep listening, I weep thinking. I weep for the past that has been raped. I weep for the present that doesn’t exist. I weep for the shattered future.
We exist at the periphery of civilization, threatened by tycoons, struggling every day with extinction.
The Book Of Life 