In the duration of making a mug of oddly brewed coffee and a short bath, I clamber back onto the comfort of my mattress, holding in my palms a birthday present I received not too long ago from a dear friend of mine. It steals the hours of when I sleep and what I do, and it frightens me to a point where I don't really know what I'm doing anymore. But what I'm sure is that I'm liberated from the concurrent weight of the world, delving myself into what I call mysteries of paradoxical irony and double entendre. Do these sips of coffee bear the heavyweight of what these catty narrations bring to me? Hm. I dig deep to search the meaning to what I have been reading for the past days and ask myself, what if I saw everything, every bit of detail through the eyes of Humbert Humbert? What if everything to me seemed like a game worth playing? In the case of Annabel Leigh, why and in which aspect did I literally fail in? These are the reasons why I'm not getting my sleep. To unveil the ambiguity of what the story strives to conclude at the far end of the conclusion. Or is there even one? I yearn to understand the eccentric ways of Vladimir Nabokov.
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