Good Mistake

Intro

My head is inside the neighborhood garbage can, but I'm not searching for something there. All of my thoughts reside within a black plastic bag, tied in a Gordian knot; it seems they've been discarded.

Everything begins with a good mistake, the outcome of the last battle between my heart and brain. It was a conflict that allowed me to grow.

Before I embark on recounting the story of my life, I pondered why I should write about it. Who would care about my life's story? Why should others waste their time in it?

Then I thought again. I am a witness who lived through his own words—words that are too loud for mere words and too shy for the world. Now, when I reflect on my life, it resembles a dream. In fact, I cherish dreaming. Sometimes, dreaming is the only genuine action. I still do it. As I gaze at the occasion and start to dream, I envision myself not belonging here, and it propels me forward. Dreaming is not a means to change myself or become a different person. I believe dreaming isn't even a complete step toward self-healing. It's just a small, tentative move in that direction. No matter how far I extend my dreams, I can never escape from myself. In my dreams, I sometimes create a world—a better world, a vast world, as vast as my wishes before falling asleep. In my world, "Eve" has yet to bite that fucking apple. In my world, I resolve the internal wars within me and extract meaning from them. War and my culture will never be separate; they are intertwined.

This book is merely a partial diary of my life. It's neither beautiful nor ugly, not even black or white. To me, it appears more like gray—the color of reality.