I’ve found that no one is capable of hearing me. Not only me, these writings, but– and this is almost worse– me, the one who wonders what to do with his writings.

I find myself wasting my time, avoiding my life and my destiny as a writer, simply because I do not yet have the strength to compile and arrange things together, to make a book of things. As if I wished to die and surrender it to oblivion, to burn it all. Despite the fact that existence was worthless without them. I didn’t survive cancer for the sake of living a few more years, to enjoy some more life, but because there was something that could only be voiced through me (and I purposely do not say, “which could only be voiced by me”). And yet no noise, or only noise, comes out when I speak, and I remain indecipherable to myself and to others unto the end of time. And the public person I am, the one who gets excited and laughs in crowds, he was all mask, and when he was seen, it was true that all the courageous gas had run out of him. He was most himself when alone and intoxicated in the deaf and mute hell that was the silence of his heart and head. But if you saw him then, he would explode. Could he prove it to you?– that the world ended nightly, with every exhale. What good it did to prove this to the world itself, ruined him, and he couldn’t tell why.

No one can hear me because I must “go off the deep end” for destiny to meet me, for me to not be smothered under the weight of my own fear of myself– of encountering myself.

Of proclaiming my greatness and my nothingness at once– who has the patience to hear it, to read it? Only someone who, by chance, resembles me.

And so here we are, falling into the only thing worthy of us: blistering and fomented honesty, rending us unto death