I'm lost in what I can't compose.
What is between every thought?
Are minds ever silent?
What of my time is wasted?
How can I determine if my time is valuable?—if any time is.
Where are you?
Who are you?
Are you?
Maybe it's you.
Maybe it's nobody.
Maybe it's somebody else.
I have infinite answers.
To infinite questions.
But within the plethora: an infinite amount lay beyond my grasp—how is that so?
It merely is.
But maybe there is one answer.
To all the philosophical enticements.
To all the pleasures and pain.
To all there is.
It's merely absurd.
But what to do in response?
Respect?
Spite?
Laugh?
A combination of these and all there could be?
All that I do.
Distractions against this.
Distractions against my familiarity with what is unfamiliar.
Self-awareness: a cursed gift.
All of this.
All there is, and all that has the capacity to be.
It's because I'm lost.
Lost in what I can't compose.