I guess maybe that’s what I want. Building a complete world from scratch that gets more and more complex as I get older. Never stopping, never running out of breath. The world will consist of layers, each a petri dish for the layer above it, so everything is connected and none can exist without the other. If you need to, you can extract even the bottomest layer to see what you did then, how your nascent world was like, reminisce, and rejoice at your current triumph as ruler of a universe belonging to you only. Only you know how simple your complex world is, how organic the progression from layer to layer, how everything is interconnected and how everything is one. You no longer get frustrated or envious at other rulers of similarly complexte (complex+complete) universes, because you know how they can be done. Because you have got one yourself. I have skinned myself, inspected all the wounds, ruptures, scabs and lesions on the surface of my freshly peeled dermis—mementos of long stretches of laziness, lack of focus and low self-esteem. I am trying to accept my life as it has been, as a collection of matryoshkas each one missing different bits of its innards. I have not accepted this fact entirely. Had I done this, had I done that, had I left her earlier, had I not believed her so readily, had I not abandoned my beliefs for a promise of comfort and companionship, had I believed earlier in the superiority of earnest artistic endeavours over cool detachment to anything remotely human. I will not go on, there are things waiting to be consumed.

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