Identity Cries "Is!"

I sit on my bed hunched over, legs crossed Indian-style, hands clasped in front of my ankles. I rock back and forth in time to the thoughts racing through my head. My eyes turn backwards to see, but the messages and words and images move too fast. There is no grasp but that which is before me - that which holds no significance to that which remains internal. No grasp and no expression, there is no interpretation, no transliteration for the language of my mind.

Ideas and concepts without tangible roots spring forth rhythmically.

I am not high. I am not stoned. I am free from chemical influence.

Only the music permeates the vessels of my body - soothing sounds penetrating the walls that prevent words from escaping. The division between the in and the out dominates the worry searing my brain. An icy barricade that freezes the eyes and hardens the facial expression, it prevents me from functioning in a more socially acceptable manner. My modes of expression run one-way - the wrong way - inward.

I seek and find and absorb and remember. I do not relate nor express nor communicate nor recall.

I see, hear, and feel, but I do not care, desire, and sympathise.

The world hurts, and I don't like it. If I could feel, I would hate it; but I can't, so I won't.

Vitriol.

People frighten me, not for what they are or what they do, but for how they make me feel. I do not hate them or myself, but I do not like what I see when I look into the world, as well as into myself.

I read somewhere, or maybe I saw it in a movie, that we are all concurrently three people: who we think we are, who others think we are, and who we really are. It's difficult to distinguish except when our description doesn't match the description of another, and no one's descriptions ever match anyone else's descriptions, and nowhere is it written as gospel that somewhere in the middle lies the truth. We are not who we think we are, nor are we who others think we are. We are all someone else entirely, and that's what scares me about people - that I know this, and they don't.

I'm not who anyone thinks I am, since I am something different to myself depending on the circumstances. I am rarely the same person twice, and I do not believe that I am the sum of all the different "me"s I pretend to be. I am something else entirely. I may know what I am, but I can't be sure. I can't express in terms understandable to you or me or anyone else what my mind thinks I am.

I am me, but what is me? When I turn my eyes inward, I can see what I am, and when I turn my eyes outward, I can see what I am not. I don't like that I'm expected to be that which I am not, nor do I think it's fair that I should accept that expectation, therefore I refuse. I will be me, whatever me is or I am, and I will be rejected or accepted as that and nothing else, and I accept this fate which I grant myself.

So I sit and rock, and I think without talking, and I deny the hope that I will find understanding in others. That's not what I want - to please any person other than myself. Honestly, I don't care. Fuck you and your intolerant kind.