I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. The more I say the words, the more lost I feel at sea, drowning in waves of solitude and doubt. I cannot give answers to any question but this: I don't know.
The more I try to learn, to feel, to see, the more I find that I know nothing, feel nothing, see nothing.
I haven't needed a saviour in a long time; a year perhaps - a long time in the mind of someone who's forgotten how to measure time by the ticking of the clock. Maybe this is just one of those moments, an echo through the universe of the things I used to feel, rippling forward and reminding me that I used to feel differently: I used to feel too much. I've lost things. I've lost myself.
What am I doing? I don't know. Where am I going? I don't know. Where have I been? That's easier to answer, but it was all so long ago and the passage of time has melted the details.
I sit here, stifled by these walls, unchanged even as I change, hearing the words from the people who are supposed to love me, and I realise how little they know. How little they actually care. They pretend all they like, but they truly know nothing. But what can a well say to a puddle? The puddle shall never understand. It's mind is too tiny to comprehend. The puddle yells and screams and tries to force; it gets angry and frustrated because the well is not answering, but the problem is the puddle - it doesn't know the source of the problem; because it doesn't want to listen; living in its own world of made up solutions, it can never be told the truth. I'm running out of patience. But the puddles can't handle an influx of extra water - they would drown.
The window is open, the night crawls in, and smells, as foul as sewers clings to the walls, to the window sill, to the paint. Is it any wonder that I hide in here? I want to go out into the world - there's something I know - but I don't know what I shall do with myself. Sometimes I wish I could fall into true vagrancy, become one of the delinquents we were all warned about; at least I'd have a place in the world.
I'm tired of being someone else. I'm tired of not knowing myself. It's time I grew into me, wearing the attitude I've always wanted to wear, living the life I always saw in my dreams, glimpses into eternity of darkness, of the grunge they always try to clean.
They can't clean the stain on this soul.
Who was destined for greatness? Certainly not me.