It seems as if I've begun again in the confinement of my bedroom. Shed my skin anew somehow. I tell others, "I do my best thinking when I work with a group!" But that always felt like an excuse to be heard. And to share my revelations with an audience. The trouble with isolation is that it allows you to think. Unpolluted. Without influence. With no audience. Suddenly things you knew to be truthful are not. And things you claimed to know are simply theory. And the person you understand like the back of your hand simply changes. I could tell others, "I do my best thinking when im alone!" But that would feel like an excuse to deconstruct myself. And to open the crevices of my mind and rearrange them to satisfaction. The trouble with isolation is that it is warm and dark. Brimming with damp. And ideas that seemed to be confined to small germs in small circular dishes. Just grow. and grow. and grow. Would it be so far off to say, "you were a completely different person when this started." I thought I knew myself. Knew what I liked. Knew what I loved. Alas, I was wrong. Polluted, with influence from an audience. I found myself questioning systems. Dissecting societal boundaries. Venturing past my knowledge of what it meant to be free from the binary. Past consciousness and decolonization. Confinement has possibly been one of the most freeing experiences of my life. That is not to say that I don't miss the wonders of the world. The beauty of comparison and admiration. Of envy and social calling. Of creation and of critique. It is simply to say self reflection true self reflection comes to me when I am alone. Identity blossoms and twists to face the sun. With nothing but time on my hands due to an everlasting quarantine. I water that garden unknowingly. I grow into someone else completely. I think that i grow into me. I think that I shed my skin anew. I think I've begun again. I think. I've done a lot of thinking.