kafka

closing that door was hiding the silent pain of retreat and repressing the servitude with pride. i would never be same, i swore. and here i am, babbling and dabbling with my own thought that i so hard subdue. to little or no effect.but not the same. immutable formula of metamorphosis where the rearranging of mind follows the heart and vice-versa. where once a mould stood lies now an imperfected piece, rearranged and forged from other selves. where are the defects now, now that i am whole but not intact. where i am sound but not sane.