I feel a grim satisfaction as mud splatters on my white shoes. What an appropriate metaphor for early adulthood.
My problems are not my own. The sociological imagination has never seemed so applicable. We’ve all been dosed up On dashes of passion, splashes of intelligence and just enough anxiety and depression to approach existential nihilism and We’re fed these lies of individuality but We Know we are only products of our youth and culture, ones of many in the long production line We claim We are Art, but We Feel we’re just generated from streams of code, prepared to fight to the death for some algorithm that doesn’t even matter And so I protest I can’t just be a number I am flesh and blood, my knees are buckling under the weight of this artificial perfection. I’m not just a number, My eyes are staring at the the marks that determine my worth, knowing success is my only option i am not just a number My sanity is sinking and drowning and constantly fighting to stay afloat But I am not just a number. - My mind tells me I’m not making it-- How are these other people making it? I’m determining my worth on sets of standards that are as worthy as dust And it is with these standards i am told I am just a number.
I feel like I can no longer speak because I’ve been shouting at the top of my lungs I AM NOT JUST A NUMBER
But my voice is too quiet And the world is too loud.
I’m so tired of trying to be heard. Yet these words still sound better when I scream them, not just scrawl them down on scraps of paper.
for someone so happy I'm so very angry. for someone so happy I'm so very sad.