I wish I could, but I am neither one of my parents, I could not dictate myself to chose my fate: to be born when I like to be freed from my mother's womb. I'm also not a gifted strategist who could make a written plan of my life from beginning to end and follow it without an iota of change. A magnificent decision maker, I am not. I could not be an ever-perfect judge of my destiny. I am neither the Keeper of the Book of Life that I could flip back the pages of my own storybook and whitewash all the mistakes I have committed in the past.
After all, I am a mere PRISONER within the confines of my cell. My world is so small and I am suffocated by the threatening idea of unmeasurable distance from the flow of life . . .
Reality is not within my grasp, I am lost inside my own shell . . . . and my reality is as pale as the monotonous life I could afford . . . to think, write, think, write . . . the cycle goes on and on -- and it seemed to have no beginning, no end. So I will end it.
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