You're shallow. You're empty. You stuff your face in a dish of halwa and you leave it.You fart. You glide. You snort. You fart. You snore. You think to yourself, why do I call myself a writer? In this island where one ought to educate themselves more before crowning themselves as intellectual?You only think about what’s in front of your eyes. Your coffee is your border. Your halwa is your pleasure. You’re a poor soul. Your world is limited. You're lost in the dream you think you live in. How it formulates itself to the heat.
You say so many things that might sound deep if they actually were. You’re lost. You’re confused. Are you enjoying this? Is it what you wanted to do today? Do you often look up words in the thesaurus in order to sound sophisticated?
You have another piece of that halwa. It’s been 4.56 minutes since you've sat. 2.369 since you've cut it. You rest your arm on the hardback book next to your mug in order to sound educated. And you eat. Bit after bit. You fart and you chew and you look and you fart and you're lost in a world you don't recognize because you simply didn’t expose yourself to enough of it.
