Most of what I write is absurd, but I write for myself and in a world sanitised of originality, the imperfect and vulgar rise not just as humane but most importantly, Human! I thus deal with imperfection and even celebrate it. I am a deviant. I deviate from the norm because, norms after all, leads to automation, and automation leads to enslavement. But I am not a miscreant who creates a ruckus all for nothing. I like the mundane as much as the impromptu adventure but I refuse to surrender to any kind of enslavement. I was born free and must die free. I speak in soliloquy, engrossed in my own wonderings, I wander to no end.

Now, I think my scar will be very appropriate in my right hand as it will depict that I am flawed and stupid, and that makes me celebrate my humanity. I am not perfect enough to achieve the perceived notions of divinity and not automated enough to embody the ‘realities of enslaved life’, but a grotesquely beautiful yet flawed deviant, a miserable human who is happy with his chaotic imperfections.

I cannot introduce myself because I do not know who I am. I am not a being but a becoming. Becoming what, however, needs to be seen. At my last breath, I will understand who or what I have become, or maybe even then I will not. But what is fascinating is this ‘unknowingness of the self’ which excites me about myself because within me is a ‘journey of self-discovery’.