I cannot stop moving in circles for it isn't over yet. Even though I've got my life back; the life I used to have, when I was still unattached, impulsive and careless. Before a constant sense of shame spread its roots inside my mind; before I learned to filter words and actions so they'd fit into the mold someone else had created for me

Filtering, of course, is an on going process. But now I am the one who makes the choices. You could call it pretentiousness or dishonesty; I'd say it is little more than selective unveiling of particular sides. There's such variety in my wardrobe of characters. I'm like a book that changes to suit its reader. And when the transformation fails to produce the desired result, I feel worthless. As if my only task in life was to be a convincing personifier.

Never trust literature that does not threaten to undermine
your preconceptions.