I am made of perceptions. I see the clouds, the trees, but most often people. I see them as they wish to be seen, but also the part they believe occult. No matter if voluntary or not, they leave traces of their soul on every street corner. All I do is pick them up, swallow them, inhale them, give them a place near my lungs. Every breath I take I feel them inside me, shaping my insides like an organic mold. I am not myself, but after all no one is. Most of who I am is somebody else’s. Observation inevitably leads to incorporation. We are merely agglomerations of assimilated fragments. And it by no means signifies one doesn’t exist as a whole. For if others live in you, you live them. Your heart beats outside of your body and it is breathtaking. You are not you ; someone else is. Your laugh resonates in somebody else’s voice. Your walk taints a stranger’s steps. Someone writes like you, talks like you, and vice versa. Your dancing isn’t your own, nor are your words. Everyone seeps into each other when they get close, like the sea on the shore. I carry their fragments much like trinkets I stumble upon as if by miracle.
It is a wonderful thing to hear life beat inside you, a life that is not yours.