sometimes i think i understand why the pieces done by painters or sculptors or poets are simply incomprehensible
are they by chance afraid of being fully exposed? yet wanting to be understood by others, but there's just some thing you don't want people to discover. they want to express themselves so people take note of them, but fear the reaction being opposite of what is expected.
something like that.
i think i'm shrouded with worries of the perception of others. is it right? or is it wrong? indeed, it can leave you miserable. no one want to be hated, thus finding ways to be liked. to know others and make them part of your life, so you could be alive.
yet, getting connected is a wholesome task.
people are complicated creatures, that's why.
i'd rather people to voice out what's in their heads, and to do that myself would be wonderful too. but, it's simply difficult. when i thought i'm being considerate of others, it seems like in the end, it's all about me. can i be more selfish than that?
and it's not like the world revolves around me, is it?
but it certainly is, in 'my' world. in that tiny world of 'mine'. i ballooned up in 'my' whole world suppressing others to the walls.
what am i? a narcissist??
a narcissist with a void in here, wishing it to be filled. and knows not how. to feel so small among the giant of others, longing for something to feel sheltered in ease. to much desires and and demands to be satiated. the eyes sunk down in insecurity. the feared darkness closing in.
and there's silence.