And who am I apart from my wonder?
My sadness
My curiosity
My existential pondering?
Would I actually want that all to go away?
To live my life like this always or to have no idea of the feelings this way of life inspires; both options are depressing.
The depression is what gets to me
And is caused in part by both
I feel so little in such a grand universe, so pointless, conspicuous in my expiration date.
What's it like to die, I always wonder
I don't believe in heaven or God
I don't believe my consciousness will extend beyond.
I worry that every little thing is a sign that my life is becoming like sour milk.
And the idea of all of it gone is terrifying
Nothing to write about
Nothing to explore
For who am I apart from what defines me?
I am what I define myself as
And by that, I don't know who I am
The dictionary of me hasn't seen bookstores yet
Because the editor seems to be missing in action
All my calls for help have gone unanswered
She's probably somewhere beyond the reaches of cell service
Perhaps in a forest, climbing a mountain, or by the river
She needs that time to rejuvenate
And to create my story
I would say she's a designer of realities but I couldn't figure out what a reality was so I changed it.
I believe it's important to say what you know to be truthful
To follow the Maxims of Conversation
To compromise with yesterday in exchange for a better tomorrow.
