我
We are all walking libraries of forgotten books.
The self is not a solid thing but a collection of echoes.
The universe is a story we tell ourselves to make sense of the chaos.
We are all made of stories, and those stories are never truly ours alone.
The more we try to control the world, the more it slips through our fingers.
Language is the only homeland we truly possess.
The dead speak through us, in our dreams, in our words.
The border between dream and reality is thinner than we think.
We are all translators of our own experiences, turning the raw into the meaningful.
The past is not fixed; it shifts with our retelling.
Every journey is a search for the self, even when we think we are running away.
Reality is not something we perceive, but something we create with our stories.
We are all fragments, not only of ourselves but of each other.
The real is always more than we can say.
The world is a dream we share.
The only real knowledge is self-knowledge.
The world is a language we have forgotten how to speak.
The world is a story we tell ourselves.
The world is full of signs, but we have forgotten how to read them.
I write to find out what I think.