Short talks


I live in a masquerade. My mask is a part of my skin. Writing peels off my mask, and skin too.

When I’m writing I’m nude, and naked too.

The person with the pen is no longer the person on the paper. Sometime the former hates the latter because she is always thinking, rethinking, and overthinking— the process makes her sober when she would rather be drunk.

Descartes himself writes: “I think therefore I am.” When I write I feel my existence— I’m real, three-dimensional, alive and living. I’m no longer a physical existence wrapped in commodities. I’m a creator, my own heavenly existence— I’m creating images with my thoughts, and constructing myself and the world through the images, I live in my own cosmology.

When I write I’m free— I’m a flesh deprived of its skin, and it causes tremendous pain. Writing hurts because freedom hurts. But the creation is worth the pain.


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