Dear sister,

This morning while I was walking beside the train track, curious as to where it ended, the track split into two. I wanted to go left. But was that really my choice? Or was I being controlled by some force? And if I wanted to go right? Was I overcoming the force, or was it controlling me all the same?

And I suddenly thought about art. Art is, in some way, a mixture of absolute narcissism and crippling self doubt. And then I thought about achievements. My biggest achievement so far is not killing myself, but I don't think that's something you can brag about at dinner parties.

While I thought about these things, I realized there is so much to think about that no one ever thought about. I can't name these things, because no one thought about them yet, no even me, and then there are things only certain people thought. Maybe there are things all of us thought of. And then I thought about thoughts.

What if our thoughts were written on our skin? Would people have less to hide? Or would they just hide their skin even more?

When do we start thiking? How do we think when we start thinking? How is it that we have these little voices in our heads that can tell good from bad? Where do they come from?

There are so many unanswered questions that I will probably never know, and that depresses me.

And I haven't written anything in a while, so I started writing about thoughts, and I saw a spider in the corner. 

A spider lives inside my head

One who weaves a wonderous web

Of thin silver threads and silk-like strings.

That spider catches all sorts of things

Like crumbs of smiles

And thoughts of springs.

And as it comes throught the thoughts

It picks the prettiest ones

To stick them on the memory lane

In hopes of keeping me sane.

But there is this ugly string

Shining brighter when the sun is dim

It holds specks of dried-up tears

And all kinds of sadness and fears.

And as the spider knits that web

Catching whatever thought in my head

What if he runs out of material

And some thoughts fly around

Unasnwered

Without sound.

And I was always afraid of spiders.

All my love,

Vice.