Coldfeetandhands.

Nothing is. Thinking makes it.
A fragmented existence, existing only in parts and inconsequential fractions.
A very futile attempt to be whole. The fractions never adding up. The graph always remaining as a negative hyperbole. But come to think of it, it's beautiful. This meaningless quest to reach entirety.
There are so many parts to us, so many "masks"? or disguises? What is a disguise? Isn't a mask inherent? Can anyone actually ever claim to be unidimensional? Wouldn't that be painfully boring? But wait, it 's not possible to begin with! Slip in from one role to another. The basis of your existence. The social animals that we are or are supposed to be. At times these selves collide and just when you thought that the pieces of the puzzle that you are so desperately trying to arrange, have been misplaced yet again-overthrowing with it, your misplaced sense of judgment about yourself and "the other". There is an idea behind the self. A very carefully constructed fortress that we all build, some consciously, some sub-consciously. For those who create this carefully constructed image for ourselves, it becomes increasingly complicated to hold on to a certain facade for too long-especially when things tend to go unplanned and off-track. Insecurities creep in and you try to salvage whatever little you can of your self-induced embryonic immunity. Steps in self protection and damage control. Re-trace a few steps, erase a few unwanted moments. Moments that lead to choices, choices that lead to moments and so on. But you cannot really re-trace. You can only lament and regret and despair. But you can also put on the mask of indifference and pretend. But for how long?