I've always loved stories. Reading them, listening to them, writing them. When you tell a story to others, you tell it also to yourself, and in telling the story to yourself, you bring yourself to understanding the story more than you ever thought you would.

I've been feeling somewhat unsatisfied with the way my blog has been sounding lately. It seems to me as though it has become a rather lengthy Facebook status, shoving the activities of my life into the faces of others and expecting others to find it interesting. It lacks to captivate even my own interest as I reread it, which is to be expected, as it has none of the presence and stark honesty that is the byproduct of work which has sprung from one's heart. It sounds rather fake and childish, and the language leaves much to be desired.

So this is an experimental post. One which tells the readers not whether I've been to Cologne or to a theme park or the shop round the corner, but tells you only as much as you want to read. You, the reader, will decide where I am - in my state of mind and in my heart.

“As it unfolded, the structure of the story began to remind me of one of those Russian dolls that contain innumerable ever-smaller dolls within. Step by step the narrative split into a thousand stories, as if it had entered a gallery of mirrors, its identity fragmented into endless reflections.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

Until we meet again.