Every once in a while I sit at the corner of my bed with a billion thoughts in my head and a blank page in my hand, introspecting, once again, what went wrong?  I lift my pen, white against black, clear out my mind for a moment and start from the middle of the black empty space. I get through the labyrinth of thoughts and enter this void from where I think I can contemplate one episode after the other. So I start building the core, it’s always simple, a concentrated chunk that I bound carefully before it blows out in all proportion. From here, I perceive a number of assumptions , pleasing delusions, displeasing truths. I’ve been here, I recognise this space. It’s a good start, I like a good start. I choose what to do, how to go around it, like I know it all. I know how every piece fits, so I stain the paper again. It’s conventional how it goes on from here; emotions flow out in a rhapsodical fashion, I lose control, the boundaries break out, the delusions clear, the draft becomes busier. It makes no sense. I snap out of this realm, take a pause, shut my eyes for a second, take a deep breath, glance at the wall again, stare back at the sheet, look back at every detail, I don’t want to go back there, not yet. So I carefully bind these thoughts again and create an impermeable shell around it, add an ambiguous detail and escape from the paradoxical state of mind. And although I still don’t have closure, I have an abstraction that’s capable of transporting me back there if I stare too long. Today, it’s a busy piece of art, a piece of mind that I extracted for my own good. Until next time.