decaying

I am rotting.

***

In a society that cradles emos and faux-depressives as a misunderstood subculture, I toe the line between what makes them them and what makes me me. I have long struggled with the concept of identity (fuck you Erikson) and have been unable to maintain a discernible persona. I float between what I would like to be amongst different circles of peers, only to find that nothing I act out is true to what I am. I am a confused chameleon.

I long to say, "No one understands me," or something equally dark and cantankerous, but the underlying truth is that even I don't understand myself. I strive to figure out how to socially interact and even feel like I hit it some days, only to find the next day I shrink away and my pursuits hit the edge of bathos. No man is an island except sometimes this man. The bell tolls for me.

The question emergent from the study of my favorite topic, meta-consciousness, is simple: "Who am I?"

I ask myself this every day.