The social recluse

I just spent three full hours thinking. Just thinking. Not meditating. Not writing. I’ve been asking myself questions that I have heard today. Questions to which I surely knew the answers, but for some reason, I couldn’t say them, because they had disappeared within a wink. If this reflects my uncertainty, then I’m quite ashamed of myself.

One should never be understood completely, John Lydon wrote in his autobiography. It’s the “kiss of death” and the ultimate “full stop.” It looks like I have to invite myself for a coffee and get to know myself better before anyone else. But then again, who will ever really know you anyway?

Whenever you ask writers about vulnerability, they’d like to say that they have nothing to hide.

I have to start drawing maps for myself, even though I’ve never been the best at reading maps, let alone my own handwriting.

I read an interview with Jack Nicholson, who, apparently, used to be a womaniser in Hollywood. He is described as a “sociable loner,” which I find amusing, as I’ve been called a “social recluse” before. Oxymoron is fun, so is the Wilde-ean paradox. This is where uniqueness dwells. I think Jack is someone who realises that socialising is crucial, although he couldn’t give a shit deep inside. How do you think I’ve been feeling?

I have been listening to Somewhat Damaged repeatedly and realised that the title isn’t about my “a-e,” but about me – every single word and its hidden meaning beyond those letters. The song just draws a parallel line to the story.

It feels like a never-ending journey, but I prefer it this way.

There is too much unfinished business around me, which I can tell by my haunting dreams; it might as well take my whole life, because I’m so slow at dealing with things, although I’ve always had the compulsion of wanting to finish things as soon as possible so that I can move on to the next.

In the end, you are what you never thought you were.

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