I’ve had years of gazing at ceilings from my bedroom to the open
yet suffocating air of my environment and so I’d long ago found out
the most deleterious ways to imagine the worse that my own mental
illness could escalate to. I suppose the keenest redemption I can
do for myself is to accept, unwisely, that it will be always in me.
That in the most concealed that I can be, in the bulwarks of my den,
I would still dilapidate in unforeseen consequences. I cannot get
hold of my weaknesses. There is this need to control something that
is protruding. And so I have this desire to surround myself with
people dwelling in Art. For such thing is my only filler in this
perceptible void; an outlet for my bottled up tantrums; a celestial
sanctuary for my repressed childhood traumas, wherein my involuntary
existence would not waste away as a mediocre in this unending charade
in a social climbing third-world country.
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HUBIN MAGAZINE