Ah, I’ve been waiting for it. Melancholia is seeping through my mind again.
Sometimes I wish I could speak my mind, but no, I must contend myself with ambiguity. I’m sick of leaving huge gaps in my words for the sake of censorship. I don’t mean censorship in terms of axing out vulgarities. Honestly, I don’t mind saying fuck, chee bye, lan jiao, lampa, mai-re pundeh and a whole host of taboo words. But the things I want to write have tremendous consequences as compared with mere vulgar words.
Tears cannot compensate for the pain I feel. I’ve numbed it for too long; I’ve floated without knowing who I was. However, I accept that I’ll have to remain behind a mask. Even after the show has ended, I must continue my wearisome act just because I’m bound by the fucking stage; like a ghost bound to his haunting spot.
It sounds like I’m giving up but I’m not. Logen is a stubborn bitch.
My own words stating that I’m the god of my own destiny still applies. But maybe I’m already too tired to journey on. I long for my demise when I lie in bed. I might just go on dreaming forevermore. Reality doesn’t really go well with me. It considers me an oddity.
Ultimately, I’m saying that I do not belong in this world. I’ve simply lost my way from home. I do not remember the place I belong because it certainly is not here.