Within this puny flesh, there live sentient pieces of aborted selves that are at constant conflagration with one another aspiring to steal the limelight of consciousness: a poet, a mechanic, a philosopher, a sociologist, a psychologist, a cultural critic, an artist, a chef, a writer, a filmmaker, a film critic, a cinematographer, a philologist, a linguist, a historian, and an orator, densely condensed into an unwitting flesh and of frail spirit that I call 'I'.
These morsels of half-born selves that failed to realize in the 'actual' all revile against the oppressing backdrop of the body and mind they chose to inhabit --- a frustrated universe experiencing itself through the eyes of a frail boy, hallucinating in the finite, and dreaming of a thousand lost possibilities cast into the irretrievable ocean of time. Woe to the lot of men, of missed possibilities of being!
And now I hear only the scintillating voices of the damned souls forever lost in the torrential waves of potentiality, forever a phantom amid my exultation.
Oh, how I long for these stillborn selves lost in the void of time!
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