How do you know you’re living your best life, when at your best you still feel hollow?
What am I supposed to be doing, when Doing is the antagonist of my Being?
Who am I supposed to BE,
when what I DO is more important than who I AM?
How can I tell you the way I really feel, when words are so clumsy and shallow?
Why do the clouds' imperfections astound you, but my own make me worthless?
If I died and came back as you, could I look myself in the mirror?
If you died and came back as me, would you have the strength to go through what you put me through?
If life is a game, I’m not having much fun at all.
If death is a maze, I hope to always be lost.