It's easy to lose yourself over time because being a person is a fluid thing. Whenever I feel empty, I wonder if it's because I don't knit anymore; I don't write poetry anymore; I don't write stories anymore, drawing pictures of the characters to satisfy my earnestness; I don't tell people what to do anymore, or give advice anymore; I no longer write imaginary speeches; I've ceased to tie a cape around my shoulders and pray for dragon wings; I don't idealize childhood like I used to but neither do I respect the state of being that supposedly comes after.
The question is this, then: am I empty because I am decaying, or am I empty because I'm finally about to be filled?
Because now I dream vividly of torture and desire; I write letters to dead people and save them in a book; I draw pictures of the creatures from my slumber, solidifying them in my earnestness; I ask strange questions and listen intently to the answers, unconcerned about my own opinion; I battle between hope and horror for the human race; I think longingly of cityscapes and mountaintops, the bird's eye view and the terrifying freedom; I no longer attempt to put my humanity in a box, floundering with labels and understandings, trying to know myself and realizing that to understand the smallest part of the smallest animal is to know the universe.
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