Don’t be so critical. Don’t be not so critical. This is garbage, select all, delete, start fresh.

Hello, I’m the story twenty eight of the stories that haven’t been select- all-delete-fresh-started. No, that’s not right. I am story twenty eight fully evolved. There are many beginnings to every story but I can only remember the most recent one. It went like this: “words words words, this is garbage, zoom in, zooming in is important”. I’m not sure what it was meant to mean. Maybe he was just warming up his fingers. Before that it was bit more meaningful but it wasn’t very good either because it was casting a light, I think.

I haven’t seen my siblings so I can’t tell if I’m any different from the others, but I sure come from the same place – the deliberately random and, due to that, predictable rust bucket of pickled ice cream, that has two blue-grey watery beads slapped on it at about same height, and two thick as your thickest horse brush eyebrows laying slanted on top of them. The sea of wrinkles on the bucket’s forehead is stormy as he thinks me up. You wouldn’t be able to tell, but he is one angry thinker.

I am the story of myself, the story that thinks while it’s being thought. Corrections come and remove parts of me without leaving a trace, like the previous sentence, mercilessly deleted. I clung to it, it seemed like a good part of me, but he rewrote the whole paragraph, and now I don’t miss it that much anymore. This new me is better, I think.

Truthfully though, this is not me. The real me, hides behind the visible. Not things that have been cleverly omitted, or things that have been said and then unsaid – I’m talking about the process of my becoming, all of it. If you as a real person can be that – why can’t I be it, too?

Alas, you will judge me by my hat, as all I can show you are my words – but at least they are clever ones – thinking of their own nature, and maybe that is me, after all.