I read them again, and I ask myself did I write this? or was it my hatred? my jealousy? my blue insecurity? my dotted confidence? my dark ignorance? my light knowledge? my smashed brain? my hand motions? my eye direction? my god's voice? my little playful kid? my rushing emotions? my mother? my father? my country? countries? pure madness? my friends and enemies (simultaneously)? my rock hard keyboard? my fanatic ego? How was I feeling at the time except that rush of blood to express?
Just so that my ghosts know what I write at a particular time may not apply at another particular time! World of uncertainty after all, right?
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