I never gave reasons. I never wanted to. This is my space. This is my life. Call it a redecoration of the soul. Call it boredom. Call it inevitable change made clear, made visible, picturized into a new frameless picture of my being.

Now here’s the truth.
My blog speaks to me. I tend to throw in a certain atmosphere that suits my need for my very own, personal play room. My temple in which I am everything there is to believe. I am my own prosperity and famine. I am my very own good and bad. I am beautifully ugly. I feel my very own war and peace. So why do I keep doing that? Why now?

No reason. I need to be somewhere else. I’ve done that with a couple of books that I’ve technically read in my own comprehension. I reach the end of a chapter in a book where I think to myself ‘this is perfection’. It couldn’t suit it any better. And I stop reading. That’s that.

Call me crazy; for what seems to be crazy and meaningless in the eyes of many bring me more joy and satisfaction than all the riches of the world. I am my very own madman… and this is my domain; where I doubt existence and speak my mind in ways that I myself usually cannot understand.

I usually forget what I’ve written right after I click Post. I am not making this up. Even though I feel that I am, but I cannot be that sick. I cherish my blog because it’s true; I do not write on my blog. My blog writes on me; like a tattoo burning in my mind, on my priceless soul; where every burn leaves a mark that digs deeper into my impenetrable heart.

Why change now?

I change now because I have changed, because I am no longer angry. I am no longer raging. It’s just that… it got a little darker. I fear the things that I may say; and that fear deprives me of sleep, of rest. I can see myself changing. I can feel a different heartbeat in my chest. I can hear it, like an unfamiliar tune to my ears, to my body; a tune so stranger to me that I don’t know if I’ll like it in the end, but I have to keep listening… cos I don’t have a choice. So the question was, should I deny it, should I overlook it and promise myself that it’ll all go away? Or perhaps I should accept these changes, these changes that created a more careful creature. I am not sad. I refuse to give up. I loathe my weakness.

I need a fresh start. I need a clean slate. I need a new memory… a new life in which I am just a little boy who’s allowed to make mistakes.
But I’m not. I am a 26 year old man who’s filled his own vessels with guilt and fury. I need new blood. B+ hasn’t served me too well.

I need a new disguise, new scenery, a new mask, a new face so people who know me wouldn’t judge me for speaking my unguarded mind out loud, for pouring out my sick, sick soul into their unconceiving glass. I need a new name.

You can call me using my first name if you ever bump into me offline, but right here… I am who I am. You don’t know me. You never did.

Don’t you dare fucking judge me!