I don’t know who I am. Sometimes I feel like I’m not even real. Not dead, just a little lost. But very much alive. Maybe, too alive. Always thinking I think until I self destruct I think until I destroy every bit of reality Breathing, living, existing. All for nothing. But it doesn’t hurt anymore. I’ve come to accept insignificance. Processed that there is no true meaning. Nothing has a meaning. If there’s no meaning, I can’t truly ruin everything. With no meaning, comes emptiness but a little peace too. Maybe I will find contentment in my absolute, utter uselessness. Maybe, being nothing is okay.