Lost.
I don’t know who I wanna be, I just don’t. Imposed thoughts swarm in my head, frightening real feelings. The compass of intuition turns monotonously in a circle, having lost its North. Need time. Time alone. To wash out stereotypes and scrape off the coaches. Now everyone preaches some vulgarly, some haughtily. Those who have something to say remained silent. Drifting from a minority to society, speaker after speaker broadcasts new truths, swapping sentences. I feel I knew more on the first day of this journey than now. How far can a person go, surrounded by hundred “true” maps?
I am an artist, I am a writer. I don’t write at all, but I draw for money. I sell my time, tear it from life and sell for $15 an hour. My year is worth $31,680. My youth is spent. But my life is priceless. Priceless every night when I call myself to answer, hoping to get through, so that not today, but maybe tomorrow, road home begins.
