where i am right now, the book is closed. i listen to headless voices through the wall. i don’t talk. i don’t have to. i am not allowed to. why am i here again?

i keep on asking myself that question, “why am i here?” as if to wash away all claims for what my body has done. why am i here? is short of saying “i have nothing to do with it,” or “she did it.” she.

every afternoon, since december, at a train station, i look at people divide themselves into moments. the train passes by and these new people, these different selves of the same self, spread out like the wings of a fan. this lasts for a mere millisecond though before they die, and the selves, one by one, become older, are sucked back into the fold of time, of movement. like death, following.

most times i fancy myself being watched in this manner by someone else. i fancy a child. a boy child, and suddenly i feel old.

does my life progress like that? i think not.

in a room, there are many moments when i fold up–when the body folds up and becomes a child again. she cries, the body, swimming in the juices of self pity. sometimes, the body giggles out of nowhere, for a change. she puts on a good show by surprising people with that giggle. sometimes she’s quiet and pretends to be with me, with my thoughts, with the convolusions of life’s little “principles”. but she is actually scheming.

i fancy the body throwing a tantrum, allowing herself to crumble. then there goes the fight. my fight. there goes my months’ worth of trying to grow up a bit.

or maybe i am wrong, and the body is trying to tell me something. maybe it is time. maybe i am wasting my time. time is a tricky word too. it has you tied around the neck with a chain.

when is it right to ask why-am-i-here again? there it is. death, following.