Aug 26

Puzzles (Selfishness)

I find much of the world’s written work to be superficial
The pretentious voice of a writer who assumes that I,
In my infinite lack of time,
Would choose their words to fill the hole
That lies at the base of my knowledge.
 
And yet when I think this,
I realize that in my every thought,
I mimic the qualities that I most hate within this notion.
That I am assuming that the writer,
When taking their hand to the page,
Does so for the sake of informing me,
Rather than for fulfilling the path
That has become meaningful to them.
 
And yet the strength with which I despise this style
Of expressing the most intimate thoughts
Remains ever pressing within me.
 
I often find myself wishing I could relate
To the more mundane of works,
That these occurrences of everyday life
Applied to my realm of being.
And yet I yearn with every page to read an account
Of the author’s pain and confusion.
 
My own past confuses me thus,
That I wish to see my pain mimicked
By innocent and more healthy bystanders,
Witnesses to a life I wish I wanted.
 
I feed on the lifelessness of others.
I listen to their depictions their clichés,
Of how their lives fell apart
And were never truly put back together
In the hopes that I would understand the way
That my own mind controls me.
 
I am not lost,
Nor am I a hopeless and broken soul.
I am not a small child, wrapped up in self-pity,
Seeking guidance from a book I know cannot give me answers.
 
Rather I am a wanderer,
I cannot tell my delusions from my realities,
And so I embark on a journey of half-read literature,
In the hopes that somehow my thoughts
Will be a piece of a puzzle already provided for me.
 
 

 
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