Preoccupation of Mind by the unreal uncertainity is a characteristic of my personality.
Why do I scribble so many words when I can simply say,

I am.

Am I Ruthlessly Imbecile?
Am I Tricking Myself?
Can I dream with My eyes open?
Or Do I only form Illusions when Reality is Hitting me all the Time?

I was fond of nature.
I still love the Divine Mother beyond all.
But it seems a subtle but certainly opaque veil hides it all.
This is like cloaking yourself and then desperately searching for light.

What I am writing now?