22:39.

Think.

If you would, of a long neverending corridor, reminscent to that cold white one with many doors in The Matrix's.

Then again, think. Of a sound panel - sound proof of course - a thin straight division cast from floor to ceiling right smack in the exact center of this corridor. And in the middle, with the plastic-looking panel enclosing like a perfect cut-out looking like it's cutting through me, me. Not physically cut in half, but stuck in between two worlds.

One ear hears Garbage, Shirley Manson singing, "My head explodes and my body aches"; the other - if it is the other - hears Blur, Damon Albarn's almost defiantly bored drawl, "I'm a professional cynic, but my heart's not in it".

And though that clinical, plastic looking division/ panel/ wall is not cutting into me but merely in its perfect fit, gripping me perfectly , my head still feels as if it's being pressed, constricted, pressured.

Too many questions. My random theory formulated during Philo of humans being mere passive receptors of emotions and colours and every thing projected by our surroundings comes to mind. Too much to think about. And they are not even really immediate or to put it poorly, directly related to me but stuff on a bigger whole.

But I am rambling.

I read a nicely crafted lead and felt a part of me go, I want to write features like that. I want to shape and craft and mould art, my art of wordsmithery. And yet, again sometimes, I think of what I left and don't feel a desire to return.

Do I love my craft any lesser? Enjoy and desire the adrenaline chase any less? Stop believing in the power to change the world through the media?

No.

No.

No.

I still stand in many ways the same idealistic, wet-behind-the-ears, 14-year-old girl who decided to be a journalist and is willing to shed tears and blood for it. Just not dreams. And why I added that last three words in I have no idea.

Where is the mind located in the body? Is it a physical object? How does it dictate to the material body movement?

Too many questions. Too many questions. Too many questions. And I am not even expressing the linkage to theology yet. Nor will I for sanity's sake, mine and yours.

I keep thinking of Plato's cave in relation to my own situation.

But back to my Matrix-esque white corridor for which I am the conductor between the two sides. I am stuck like Anthony Kiedis, Red Hot Chili Peppers, in their Can't Stop video. Stuck in the wall like a paper cut-out, a chalk drawing on the ground. But I am alive.

"The world I love
The tears I drop
To be part of
The wave can’t stop
Ever wonder if it’s all for you
The world I love
The trains I hop
To be part of
The wave can’t stop
Come and tell me when it’s time to"
(Can't Stop, RHCP)