Random Bout of Self Awareness
Do I love myself? I did. But now I have become my own worst
critic. I am a bundle of all things mediocre tied loosely and untidily by a
thread of insanity. This represents my life. Comfortable chaos is the way I
like it. And perfection is not my niche. Maybe that’s where the average Jill in
me comes from.
From the chambers and ante-chambers of my mind to my
bedroom, it’s always been chaos, disarray. What could a mind spinning in chaos
produce but certain clichéd thoughts? And what happens when I try to pen them
down? My pen simply regurgitates those thoughts. The thoughts thought by
billions before me and will be thought and articulated better by billions after
me.
So where do I stand in the grand
scheme of things? I’m that obscure link between thinkers before and doers after
me. I am that insignificant flicker of time. I am the middle child of poetic penury
who came here in silence and will leave making no discernible mark.
(From the archives)
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