Myself.

It sure is ironic what I'm most confident in hiding, locking behind bars, covering with blankets upon blankets (and once I'm out of them then curtains and bedsheets and clothes and pieces of paper) is me. Aren't the words I thoughtlessly pour onto the social media, in a way, pieces of myself? Then again, I am fairly skilled in supporting hypocritical arguments.

One thing I will endlessly shed blood for is to hide my very self, from social media and friends and family and myself and myself and myself. Because the very me, locked up in a cage in a utopia where truth and hope is as free as it is in Omelas, is just a small arachnid. It merely lingers, a quiet dweller that sees many and learns many yet speaks nothing. It is so small to the world that it knows how easy it is to get crushed. So it hides behind silence, a hope that if it's not noticed, it will be safe.

It has thousands and thousands of magnifying eyes that pick up every small distortion in this world and magnify them until they are a vast sky of endless disturbances and problems that make one's skin crawl. And when those eyes meet another, oh when they do, the eyes multiply until the one staring at them is not one but now thousand and thousands - it's like giving a conference to an olympic gymnasium, every seat occupied not by a body, but by a pair of eyes. It is always unbelievable how loud the eyes speak against the silence of the arachnid.

It is only natural that the arachnid is terrified enough to willingly hide behind the countless barreers I put up.

So what better can I do than to bare bits and pieces of the arachnid onto social media under countless names that do not belong to me?