The Game

I’m afraid that I cannot go on this game. I’ve held on to it for a long time as if it’s my final destination. It has consumed much of me and now I feel fainted, that is, a kind of nausea about me and this world. I cannot separate myself from it—the game. I cannot distinguish mine from others’ in it and vice versa. Moreover, I myself have been probably lost already. Like straying a labyrinth, indiscernible shadows frequently haunt in my way, and I’m overwhelmed by fear of loss. Where am I? I wonder whether this is I or that is I. At some time I seem to be neither this nor that. Have I here ever been me?

All the pastiche of the world makes us blurred into one another. Make-believe or fake displaces the real that I doubt its existence, nevertheless, pursue. I’m disappearing more and more and the distorted something in me has revealed many beings I don’t know, which soon branches out. Every time in my life I’ve searched for me myself performing perfect strangers and somehow I’ve been barely getting along. Then my space of the stage gets narrower and I think I’d have to down. I’m scared and I don’t think the time has come. I even don’t want to think about it. The time is not mine, however. It is I, not the time, to be subjected.

Brit…