Before my eye line lies a monster, an ephemeral jack in the box. Taunting my needs, craving for more. Maybe my extrovert nature sediments my behaviour, categorizing it into over-characterizing traits. Slowly but surely tearing me piece by piece. The digits 1 and 3 so close they almost touch, fonts equally dictating their distance. An inescapable truth, a follower, but for what – a sign?

For it seems far too convenient for me to think that this is anything more than coincidence, I can only observe. Everywhere I look. I turn my back, looking nearsightedly into memories searching for unrelated clues.  How a birthday or a numerical equivalent of the alphabet can force memories to be depicted and remembered only by one thing. I do not understand the logic of coincidence – fatuous by design, I believe.

It stares pretentiously reflecting its value against itself, often holding no meaning until one is projected unto it. Maybe it’s a pastime I’ve subconsciously retained, trying to associate an unstrung string of moments that define me – how deep is too deep? Draw me a line between inference and insinuation and tell yourself that it can’t be coincidence that we think alike.

Why 13? – If i knew, I’d let you know.


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