a photograph was never the person
Who am I?
I beg of you, do not ask that question; even the gentlest of answers is a cruelty. Little remains of me. Would you have me look upon my own remains? Once I was... no, I will leave you with that. Once, I was.
Should you wish to go beyond these meagre words, know this. It will be more an act of yours than mine.
Behind this journal sits a mask. The mask is one of many, and the light shed on it is poor. Regarding this, I make no pretense. Yet take no offense. My secrecy permits the speaking of secrets.
What I cannot tell, a mask may reveal.
And should you wish to go beyond these meagre words, should you go and seek for secrets, then it may be that you find them...
...however should you, know this: it will be more an act of yours than mine. It is the way of secrets to be hidden. What murmers lie within are hushed and fleeting, merely glimpses of moments and the ghosts of a haunted mind.
I do not long for you to know my secrets; I long only for footprints in the dust.
The mask does not speak to you. It speaks only in tongues.
Despair not. The meaning of words is not the purpose of words.
But should you see no purpose, then you have no purpose here.
|Dec 21, 2009
|Dec 30, 2021