Attempted verbalizations gone awry

I am wise beyond my years. I am more puerile than my elementary students. I know what I want out of life. I have no clue what I’m doing. I feel nothing. I feel everything. It hurts to be me. I love who I am. I hate that I smoke. I never want to quit smoking. I want to do everything imaginable. I want to sleep forever. I’m too damn vocal. I don’t speak up enough. I can’t write to save my life. I write every day, without fail. I read into things. I’m oblivious. I want to absorb all available knowledge. I want to remain blissfully ignorant. I thrive in darkness. I’m afraid of the dark. I thrive in daylight. Sunlight hurts my eyes. I want to raise beautiful, intelligent children. I can’t envision ever having children. I’ve done too much. I’ll never do too much. I regret nothing. This is me. I’m not fucked up…I am, simply, plainly, am. I exist, and at times that is too much for my feeble mind. Other times I’m held back by my inadequacies. I imagine most humans encounter internal struggles they never verbalize…so why must I attempt?

Why do you talk to me? Why are you my friend?…if indeed you call yourself such. Why do you read this on a daily basis? I want to know. Enlighten me as to how someone as existentially conflicted, academically challenged, fundamentally and irrevocably screwed up as myself has been graced lucky enough to deserve friends such as you. I’m not depressed--don’t jump to conclusions…I’m simply curious. I consider myself infinitely lucky. Take the compliment and run.