The Human ConditionMature

Self? I'm reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy and it is leaving me with a slight tinge of existentialism.

I am alone. I am internal and present and scanning the terrain for hidden details. I am a gathering, a conglomeration of others. I am a badly put together Frankenstein doll of all the personalities I have allowed to drift in and out of my life. I have been searching for originality. I have been searching for self. Instead I feel like a Pollock on canvas; a mess from a distance and even harder to conceive up close. A melding of different textures, colors, feelings, and none of them intrinsically my own. I catch myself holding my hands like the men I've fucked in past lives hold theirs. I catch myself pronouncing words the way my mother does. I catch myself, most times. I am a page run through the copier repeatedly, a thousand different documents printed on the same page. I am a mess of indecipherable ink words all bleeding together. Am I really a part of the objective consciousness of the universe observing itself in different states? Is it all a bleed through? At times I feel as if I am a cell working together in some other mass organism, bringing life to something greater and unseen. Yet, I feel alone. And just as suddenly I feel as if I am an amoeba, complete and whole without any interference from the outside; without need. I feel pre-programmed with certain humanist instincts but at the same time I am a sponge sopping up all the influences around me. I am a walking hard drive installing any program I see and haphazardly sorting through all the viruses. I am gaining momentum but where the fuck am I trying to go? What am I trying to get to? When I look in the mirror I see the faces of others. I think the thoughts of someone else. I am searching for this sense of me but I am coming up short. I feel like a walking lie. I must be more than this verbal purgatory of pop-culture references and lines stolen from books. But, would it really be so bad to just accept that we aren't? That I am not? Why is it so hard to admit that nothing is special and everything is as it seems? I am you as you are me... or something else I've heard before.

The End

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