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It's not real. It's just a story.

18 March 2014

Oh, the dreaded funk of living an inauthentic self. But what do you do when the manipulations, the maya, you yourself enacted, created, put into action, the manifestation, the reality, the honesty, it's just as much a part of you?

I worry about perceptions. I judge and I fear your judgement. So I craft this image that allows me to deflect, to bend around the corner. To peek into my own world, my own vision, to break the rules with the permission of having earned my right to do so.

Or did I?

Instead I'm left with a fragile mess. A confused psyche. A gentle soul that's overstimulated. Or not stimulated enough.

I don't know who I am.

I'm wrapped up in this professional image. Balancing expectations with my quirky nature. Finding joy in the novelty, the absurd, the unexpected.

It's crazy to me that we don't all wake up and...flip out, be outrageous, and rage. Who are we? It's so much bigger than me. Where is the purpose? What is the point?

I always return to pointlessness. The pointlessness of life. All these constructs, just binding me. But binding me to what?

I don't exist. I'm a story.

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