I simulate a 'I' who is loving.

I simulate a 'I' who is loveless.

Both a familiarity and an enigma.

I am none of those "I"s,

a persistent me who loves flux,

a hopeless person who finds peace in not doing or thinking about anything.

I wish I speak less,
I wish I do less,
I wish I know less,

but things still happen.


what happens when I finally produce the useless perfection of my image?
will I plunge into a irreversible illusion of the real?

am I really being listened?
am I really listening?
am I really talking?
am I really looking?
am I really thinking?
am I really knowing?

There is a repetition going on.
I just cannot articulate what that repetition really is or where it is heading.
But persistenly projecting in a linear time,
I cannot face myself when time passes,
but I can face myself in these pockets of loose time, when time is ignored and I fly to somewhere far away...

Perhaps, it is a strategy I adopted to disappear behind my images;
the impulse to leave no traces.
An ironic one;
where I appear profusely,
in order to disappear.

come look for me if you can,
as I slowly mute myself and disappear behind simulated and blatant veils.


I seem to be escaping, eluding, all;
but within this closed circle of I,
I am really just I.

where the issue is never about identity (your identifications of me),
but maintaining a silent melancholic smile;
chasing butterflies by first touching caterpillars,
and trapping myself in loops of silk threads,
to transmute into an intangible fleeting moment of transient beauty.

where no symbols and signs can imitate me...
and when (somehow and someday) it is no longer about an external forgiveness;
but a self-forgiveness.

(just like it was once, "I do believe, but help me with my unbelief".

You do forgive, but help me forgive myself.

It is really, (thanks to Blanchot), about a practice of forgetting (and forgiving).