Within the silhouette of my existence.

I began writing a story in February, but I have left it unfinished since becoming more occupied with the curiosities that have been conditioning my presence lately, engaging with me uncontrollably.

Physically, I am positioned behind a hard surface while consciously I am active within the silhouette of my existence. It was, in a way, conjoining pieces of myself that existed somewhere within the experiences that I had become involved with during those quiet and complex interactions within the inside of that house. I am not always aware of the interactions when they begin, but they have always left me with a sensation after the separation begins to transpire.

I began writing a story about the life that I wished I had, the life that I thought I was destined for, narrated by the person that I thought I was becoming but suddenly lost when I began to realize that I no longer understood the world I lived in. I became a stranger to my own existence and my existence became extrinsic within the walls of that house.