A musical note, a film on replay, a pen.
Do you really know who you are? What? Are you afraid to answer now? It’s a simple question, do you know who you really are?
A musical note? To be felt, be played with, be changed to suit their versions. Is that what you are? If so, who are you going to become hmm? A techno beat to be danced along to at clubs?
Jazz, to give people soul for a night only for the day to come and they surrender back to their old selves? Or will you be my favorite, rock? To fill people with rage and smile as their hearts erupt into chaos?
I do not see you as a musical note, to be honest. You are too wild, even though your face says otherwise. You are too wild to be a musical note.
You are like a film on replay. I watch it, rewind it, pause, unpause. I try to understand it. It’s hopeless. You are a needle, and you are still the haystack. No matter how much I try, I will still fall back on my mattress, frustrated.
Aaah, I know what you are. You are a pen. Stupid of me to assume you are anything but. A pen suits you better. You write, and you write well. That is your only purpose. That is the only thing you do well. How sad? He said that to you. How sad that your dream in life is to create stories for people who do not give two shits about what it is you write. How sad indeed.
Here you go again, changing. You sing, you dance, you draw, you paint, you laugh, you cry, you lie, you hate, you hurt. Pens do not do that.
Who the fuck are you then?
I have come up with something. Listen to this.
You are states of oblivion. I will never know who you are because you do not exist. You never have. Yes, you were born, yes you breathe, yes you eat, and shit and will die.
But you are still just a mass of oblivions, coming in and out of consciousness. You know not of how to exist in this world, so you decided not to.
Hmm, look at that. I finally unraveled you. How does it feel to know that someone else knows what you have tried so long to hide?