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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