Living is trauma
As history culminates into nothingness, I write an endless paean of 'I'-ness, the solidified nature of myself, into white letters forming words under the framework of language, I pass, I pass the borders of being self-aware and being less drunk, I undergo a surgery of the self from the body, and the self reflects upon it, upon the procedure itself, it emerges like an unvanquished soldier always battle ready on the excess of itself, because the excess of the self matters, the excess of everything matters, as excess of thought tricks me into reflection of the world, and I suddenly realise that trickery, I wait and wait for boredom and death to take me, I wait for oblivion to send me letters to remember myself at times, I help tears to build up a civilisation, I breathe, and I breathe, and between those epiphanic moments, I wait to breathe again...