We're all the same here.
Amateur poets screaming for attention,
for someone to hold our spilled guts in their hands,
to see a fortune,
whatever it is that we want at the moment.

Humans have so many shared experiences,
yet we fail so frequently to connect.
For what?

"There's nothing new under the sun."
Legally recognized, defensible.
There's only one reason for a story to be a story: conflict.
There's two plots: the end is better than the beginning,
or the end is worse.

Kind of like how there's really only two choices in all of life,
and the rest is subsequent.

Do you give up, or do you not?
Do you let yourself whither and die,
pathetic,
drowning in your own tears, rupturing your stomach
by feasting on your own self-pity,
crying about being alone but pushing everyone away...

Or do you get the **** up, even if it means sewing your mouth shut to hide your own screams
and stuffing rods in your back to hold you up,
no matter how much it hurts,
and tell everyone you have a chronic eye condition,
to explain the weeping?

We're never really free.
But we're also never really constrained.

We're nothing; and that's why we're everything..

Because we're all the ******* same.

Get over it.


I've heard it all before.