I’ve been always find it very hard to understand a ‘question’.

Since I don’t understand the question, I couldn’t answer.

Since I can’t answer the question, I should make a question back.

But I can’t make a question.
Because I don’t understand the question.

Because I don’t know what I didn’t understand.

So I couldn’t answer the question.

So I couldn’t understand the question……

A dilemma cycling as Ourobos.

As a piece of paper glued the two ends together.
The beginning and the end disappear, and the paper becomes to be easily crumpled.

I rotate the cylinder slowly and carefully, hoping it remains instact forever.

But the paper gets wrinkled in my sweaty palms, my sloppy fingers.

Should I hand it over to other’s hands before I make it become more wrinkled?

Or if I wish I could hand it over?

Or should I juset crush it completely?

Just to taste the ecstasy of destruction before it’s too late.

Benethe the skin, smouldering cells prickle and itch.

A craving for nothing.

I rotate the cylinder ceaselessy, the creases deepen.
That’s where the time rears its face as a devil.

With every turn, The face sharpens.

“Who’s this?”

The silent remains, the question leaves the room.
There’s just me and the face.

My heart start’s pounding.

Kafka once told me that we are beings who cannot tell fear from love.

Fight or flight?

What if,

what if,

what if…

My hands rotate the paper faster and faster, yet the face lingers.

There are no words, there’s no emothon.

This is not an expression.
This is the mere shifting of a hide.

A land communication has never found.

I dissolve into the hospitality of meaninglessness.

Beginning, end, and memory crumble.

I cut the paper, tracing the face.

But it shifts erratically, leaving tattered shreds in my hand…

Now it’s still, it has taken form.

I cast a light upon the shabby traces to bestow a kiss.

And… “Holy shit that’s me!”

Narcissus said.