There is the distinct possibility that I am sitting here and going insane. I am after all staring into a delusion of success at works I refuse to conjure up. That is the deluded reality of the moment I am in. I am-- who am i., what is it that is forcing me forward. Have I created some falsehood, and am not actually going forward. If I go not forward where then do I go. Why do I have to go somewhere anyway. Why can I not just stay here. Why would I want to stay here there is nothing. Ah, to be self important to feel as if the world owes you something and refuses to pay up. The ranting of me. Is it necessary? What? Alone. Who is not alone. we force ourselves to believe we are something and someone with lots of some ones to follow us, and care for us. But then hide behind faces and skin. Skin, the perfect camouflage for the soul. It tells nothing of the owner. Skin hides us. Unless we try to break out of our skin. Those that do bear horrid pierced marks. Is it that the soul is so horrid that its escape may bring such horrifying gasps from neighbors, judging frowns and pitiful sighs. Laugh the scarred skin that refuses to lie about the essences of ones mind.