The Things we don't understand.

Tonight I read through many months worth of writing. And it's like I didn't recognize myself.

This is the story of a man who wanted to write down impressions, gather them together and form a picture. But he kept changing, as though suspended within impressions that could not let him go.

Remote and enveloped, he could not seem to find that fixed point from which to begin. Stuck in a place where the present entered the future, and the future recalled the past of that instant moment.
There is no meaning to life except what I bring to it.

I can feel my heart opening up.