To be wielded.
Tools, instruments, weapons... they serve purposes but never their own. I feel like an unused tool. I have such a capacity to be more than I appear, to do more than I think I can do, if I but serve a true purpose. But where to find a purpose to believe in?
Why... am i like this? Is it the social structuring of society, creating me anew with each person who expected things of me? How am I so malleable, able to change my thoughts, my habits, my characteristics? Does a chameleon have identity issues?
Is that what I am?
Lately my days have been blending together, day into night, hour into hour, minute into day and day into minutes. Time is racing then stopping then disappearing then echoing from the past. My mind is developing a strange doubled paranoia.. I'll expect something suddenly, not knowing what it is I am expecting, then realizing "why am I expecting this?" then "what's going on?"
I'm okay, it's just strange. I feel purposeless, but not depressed. Perhaps this is the waiting hour of the tool.. the time between uses, waiting for the hand that directs...
Why... am i like this? Is it the social structuring of society, creating me anew with each person who expected things of me? How am I so malleable, able to change my thoughts, my habits, my characteristics? Does a chameleon have identity issues?
Is that what I am?
Lately my days have been blending together, day into night, hour into hour, minute into day and day into minutes. Time is racing then stopping then disappearing then echoing from the past. My mind is developing a strange doubled paranoia.. I'll expect something suddenly, not knowing what it is I am expecting, then realizing "why am I expecting this?" then "what's going on?"
I'm okay, it's just strange. I feel purposeless, but not depressed. Perhaps this is the waiting hour of the tool.. the time between uses, waiting for the hand that directs...