I’m like any other man. Picking and choosing of what fits, conforming, being harmless. Detached and isolated in parts of the total impersonality of the consciousness of mankind. Once I was thinking that in those parts I am something else, I am outside of it. That I am not part of the self inflated game of stereotyping and isolation. Thinking that those thoughts that I have made my own are my personal thoughts. Making them a “thing”. An object of my mind. Which creates this fictitious mindset for myself only. Transforming myself into a non-being. Just to avoid the true weight of the content of my awareness. To stand there. In it. To open myself to it. To what it really is, and adjusting my eyes to its dim light and sometimes total darkness. To its reality. “To the desert of the real”, contemplating on my emerging metaphorical vision. Which is not an idea. Or a concept. Or my individuality as something that unconsciously goes on repeat with “ideas”. With an indoctrinated blindness to the autonomous flow of the psychic substance we are made of. Of our lost images and its memories in the shape of a future that only repeats the past. I live in these confused collages of broken self-images outside of my actual living context. The context of beingness. In short, someone else’s unfinished puzzle. Like any other man. It is what I am. I’m in it. I want to be in it. But it not is possible to be there without breaking “things”. To be different, and to feel socially awkward. It’s part of my re-evolving, and to find out what really happened to me in my second birth, years ago, in my psychic awakening.