I often struggle with how much I should unveil to the world in this play of words and how much I should not. That alone has many times eventuated in this barren, abandoned, unmoved space of white. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, fragments of my unattended reality manifest as illusive truths. I am awoken promptly on my own accord, obscured, trying to separate figments of truth from masterfully woven fabrications. And it is at times like this that I am the most disquieted from that tumultuous war I am constantly fighting with myself. But it is also when I am the most eloquent. It is when I fluently translate the unsettling disorder into legible expositions, immortalising the contending elements that have floated to the surface in that undulating sea of chaos. But I am also met with inscrutable reserve. How much should I bare to the world? How long can I persevere in this perpetual dance of masks? How much of me can I adequately ration out without being rendered completely disclosed in this often treacherous, unreliable world, where your esteem hangs precariously on a thread?

And then I retreat back into my little shell, ever so ungenerous with my words.