I tend to think of myself as a limit. Not quite without, not yet within. For just as the world outside eludes me, so does my interiority always outdistance my reach. I am late for the world, and much too early for myself.
I used to think that I had something within. Yet, within what, one might ask. A pocket of the world, pregnant with something beside it? This interiority of mine, this... interior... it is not of me. Though it may ache with a meaning I have forced upon it, though it may writhe within a crevice which I have carved just for it, still, mine, it is not. I am but the walls enclosing. Imposing a distance to whatever there might be without.
I... I have no dimension. I am just inbetween. Never quite anywhere, I feel as though I am encroaching on nothing. Encroaching on nothing... Gazing out from nowhere in particular, mine is but an act displaced. An act eventually misplaced, and misappropriated in an effort to reconstitute a point of origin. Though there is, of course, no point of origin. It is all quite pointless.
Observatia ta abila ca totul este la urma urmei in van m-a impresionat! Foarte fain scurt metrajul! Felicitari! Are profunzime prin faptul ca arata fatis zbuciumul constant la care suntem supusi. Cel putin eu asa vad problema. Felicitari din nou!