Who am I? Do I even want to know? What happens if I figure it out? Who cares?
If I could hop a train to whatever nowhere my self is hiding then I’d probably, at least, kinda-sorta consider getting on. I’d probably even complete my goal of self-discovery if I’d make the effort to stop running away from the truth, whatever that is.
Tell me something beautiful, I’ll reveal how ugly it is. Present the hideous and I’ll uncover the majesty woven into the fabric of its existence. Just give me enough chatter and agonizing static so I can drown out the silence that demands I acknowledge my existence. Life is easier when others are experiencing it for me, and it’s so much cheaper just to be jealous than to be ambitious.
Intelligence is a such a wonderful asset for staying in a state of ignorance. It is the freedom by which I justify my enslavement, turning to the same dark desires and covering up the light so I don’t have to be responsible for showing it to anyone else.
I saw a boy who stared at a dollar on the ground and said, “I wish I could have that.” As he strolled on in poverty, the ink begged him to come back and love him enough to end the homelessness that made him useless. If we only had more prophets like these, I’m tired of ignoring the ones that royal bastard, Jimmy, gave us.
Six hundred and some-odd friends who don’t know me and I’ll hit two thousand before I realize I don’t know anyone. At least everyone else is as lonely as I am.
Who am I? Ask me again later when I’m not so busy trying to find my individuality.