Lately I've been doing some thinking.

And what Iv come to know is that above all other notions of reality, is this:

Theres all these things made out of stuff.

And within every pore of matter is a breathing intelligence. And everything is just one big coincidence. Human beings have evolved to be able to witness this intelligence on an extended form of consciousness. However many do not perceive this capability, and instead confuse the essence of who they are with the collective storyline that society feeds them as their reality.

Your self.

Just be yourself.

They scream this mantra so loudly in my mind, 

Where can I find this being,

When will there be a time that I can finally define the reflections of my rind,

Am I taking this to seriously?

I spent my childhood striving to see who I was, like I was searching within a big box of dominoes. It's fun to sort through in youth, but then time grows you, throws you into the manifested realm of nothingness, gripping the past trinkets of identity like they mean something. Like I mean something.

I see how large this set of dominoes really is. The game I thought belonged to my own name quickly reveals the truth of my shallow existence, as a piece in a line waiting to be knocked over. Comprehensions so explicitly real can barely be accepted by the inflated ego I have been pumping air into. The rectangles of ivory that once stood so tall and true seem stale and chipped, so I shined the pieces up, and I tried to step outside of this line, counting the number of black dots that have been stamped on my dominoes face, trying to add these numbers up into a summation of you, you , you, who are you! 

The question still lingers like a tumor on the shrine I have built myself. I want to be still, I do not want to fall with the wind, I crave something more that this slow decomposition into the dust that I was once.