Lettre à moi...(7/8)

I am writing to express and suppress a mindless thought of an unknown procrastination about the relativity of time and moment...I have dragged on achieving my goals and wishes since long time ago. It may be a process of recognition and search. I thought I could be a thinker, or an artist, or a dreamer, but simply I turn out to be a diplomat to my very balanced life, sometimes a too-balanced one. There is a strong influence by Mencius to my way of thinking since I was small. I am idealistic and I look for a perfect world perhaps, an utopia, or a Ulysses world, and well, the world leads me to a stray where I give up my given senses and feelings. I am sure how it feels when a sin is cohabited in the quarter of dwellings. Religious approaches give way to a temporary relief for certain humans. The longer I travel with time, the stranger I appear to myself. I fall into the trap of environmental structurism, and definitely there are genetic variations inside my soul as well as the outer boundaries I perceive. The so called 'psychological' metamorphosis carries on, and I smash like the breaking glasses into kaleidoscopic smile. There is hardly any pain, since it is taken on the chin. I read the article on the causes of depression, and different hypothesises are just arbitrary and collective. Perhaps there is a correlation between depression and nurogenesis or hippocampus, but I would rather leave it a puzzle time would permit to fix it up, if people wish, some day and some time. I dug out again the album of the Stone Temple Pilot which was the first touch of a white pillow long time ago, and the feeling is still there, young and vivid. I do not feel much change on myself except the erosion in my mind after the brutal mental desertification. I starve. Melancholy becomes a label only, as there is hardly any provision or hint to my next footprint. This is killing. Age is actually a rhythmic revival of history and the forgotten debts. I discover consistent harmony of the sound of seagulls in these few days. They come from the centre of the sea, and I have this gospel on the route and in between the heart of the city. They are whispering outside my window, and I like this reminder of silence. There are roads ahead of me. I know they are leading to the different entrances of the utopia. I am not scared, and things come the way they go. I am just in the middle of two envying mirrors, and there is nothing more.