What can I do to stop these words from becoming bare, dry bones? They are dragged with the wind that scrapes them from cold ashes. A fire once burned here, but it has gone. The warmth of truth is lost under layers of stories; stories made of words. And words are but the peeling of tinted glass that turns the sunlight cold.
This is my existence to you, my unknown Reader. We are an onion. I am a thousand, a million, a bijillion layers from you, and yet "you" only exist in contrast to "I", just as "I" only exist in contrast to "you". We are one in definition, and yet opposite by definition.
And regardless of how far I write, whether it is to fill the pages of a book, or the infinite expansion of the memory, I will never reach the beginning. Just as you, Reader, will never reach a single meaning of this very large onion. We exist in layers.
The whole of the onion, made up of only layers, is written in white and lines. These are the words I use. I just pull them off, and stick them on as I see fit. And Reader, you mustn't take them seriously, for they are not the truth. They are mere representations of thoughts of ideas of feelings of dreams of existence, without which, I would be nothing. How many times have these meaningless words been mummified into dreams? How many more times have these false dreams been resurrected into lies? These lies that are felt, thought, spoken... How many times are they yet reborn?
You must trust me a lot to still be reading: I would advise you to not believe me so readily. After all, it is what got me this far. And I don't even exist; I'm just a ghost. No matter how many times you wrench the sheet from my misshapen form, there will always be another. And the deeper you reach into me, the more layers you place on yourself.
Keep reaching Reader; you will never find me.
I am Just One Bijillion.
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