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So much of the comfort I derive from my experiences seems questionable, at times, because of my tendency for exaggeration and hyperbole. Moments I go through, the ones that teeter on transcendence - are made more potent by the alchemy of my imagination. It deftly paints a picture in colours more vivid than it actually is, takes a photograph blurred so that the imperfections are hidden from view. My sense of time is caged in at times by mortal clocks and seconds, but I try to liberate it from such a hold because beauty, or my sense of it, I feel, must be limitless. The poetry that seeps into me ; into my bones, that beats bold and with fortitude is coloured by the things I read in the middle of the night. It is not my own sense of poetry, it is that which is borrowed from writers far greater than I, because of their ability to articulate precisely their emotions, to cut straight into their cores, as opposed to my own, maladroit self. I question all these things because I have stretched their truths too far, or made truths that are not even my own. Yet in that brevity, in the place between logic and reason, I realize my questions are of little importance, secondary only to the fact that at least I feel this way sometimes, and it is enough for me to appreciate the fact that I am still living

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