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I am confused, though, that’s all, and I feel as if life offers no recourse to the confused – only to those who have their minds settled down, chained, fixated either on something or away from something (I cannot live like this). and yet, don’t you think confusion is the ultimate virtue? only in this confusion do I retreat to myself, each time from a foreign place into an even more foreign place, with a language that is scriptless, unspoken. I regain flexibility in the tongue. I begin to speak, a word, a phrase or two, then embark again into the salted rain. I become confused. again, I retreat, but each time, I carry this rusted bucket-of-a-self that I am closer to the existential cow that awaits me, somewhere, under an umbrella, a canopy. at times, I can even smell the fat of its milk make my eyes go hazy, numb. it’s as if I am a nomad, carrying my hut with me, barefooted, sleeping fearfully within it when I begin to reek of chaos (maybe, I am not confused: I am corrupted)