Who are we?
About what's inside, who are we? The stories about us? The opinion that Margaret has about you? The stories I tell about others? If we repeat the same patterns over and over again, are we the patterns? Is it possible that I'm more my thoughts than anything else, than my actions? It is okay that I wonder and wonder and maybe I'm rarely here? That the pressure to be here at all moments crush me like crumble between your teeth, empty my gut out. Sometimes my dreams are me, I'm someone over there, different, I have multiple lives amongst all different cities in another world like this. I have a purpose there is so weird, but here? In this reality I don't. Who am I? Who are you? The things you keep repeating to yourself is what you are? Is the same morning you? How can I explain to someone what I am when they ask me "Who am I"? I'm so lost. Ultimately not knowing who I am, I don't know anything. Don't ask me what I am. Or better ask me and see me st...