This essay hides from its final conclusion. It haunts me. Every version is pure irritation in need of change. Always following the mantra: this time it will be better. This time I figure it out.

I did not.

I do not.

I will not.

It took me so long to realize that there is no articulation for it. Chaos is the very thing that eludes the word. It has no reason, no continuity, and no understanding. It is the opposite of consciousness.

The proper thing to do is to leave an empty page. But who would understand my intention? Maybe one day I will be brave enough.

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