you aren’t you. you’re everything everyone thinks you are. you aren’t your own skin, you can’t feel your bones. the words in your brain do not exist. am I coffee, tea, or me? I’m neither and none, and that is where I find my peace.
I find my peace not in the drink or in my bones, but in the fact that I am nothing more than what those things make me; there is a power in not mattering because then everything you do starts to matter.
Nothing makes sense. I’m feeling better, but what will I know is the best? What is the best? When will I be my best?
I said it before and I say it again now: What is meaning, is there meaning, in feeling better in the brain? Maybe I should answer that question myself for once and say “no.”