I am confused about myself, about others, about where I stand. I am confused about my life, about where life is taking me. I am confused about my existence.

The lines between good and bad are forever blurred; I know not if it’s apathy or a transcendence. I no longer recognize the path I am walking, but I no longer care.

My days are moving slowly and fast in the same manner. I know not where such movement leads. I know not where to arrive. I repeat the same day, yet never experience it as one—but rather as something that simply happens, outside of myself, outside of my mind. Just like the solar system, walking the same path yet never remaining in the same position. When does it stop? Where does it go?

My heart is full, but my mind is empty. I no longer fear the unknown, but rather a life of aching familiarity—of walking the same road again and again and again.

I know not whether it was fear paralyzing my walk, or merely withdrawing from the lessons I have already learned. I couldn’t have learned that much since it faces me once more, could I?

I found that I have become my own god, a confused god yearning to be human once more.

I am free to choose anything, but this freedom chained me to a knowledge I did not know I could attain—to a painful indifference of outcomes.

I no longer care about my state, but I desire change, good or bad; it matters not when it is experience I seek. I have become an observer rather than an actor. Ironically, now that I am the creator, I withdraw from creating—hide behind the liberty of indecision.

I find that I have found myself, yet it wasn’t myself I sought, but the world, only once more, to find it within myself.

I have learned that gold is found inside; hence, I dig inside everything I meet, hoping to find it. I presume it is not something to search for, but to experience, to project.

That is when it all fades away—I have found myself unable to experience the gold; it was impossible to prove its existence to the world. I found myself in eternal loneliness. Of my own doing, of the world—it matters not. Something is missing, something I cannot explain nor elucidate. Therefore, all is invisible to my eyes, all apart from one who perceives the inner gold—the language of god, the confusion of certitude.

I am one, tragically the only one; I found no other, or experienced no other as my own.

I have fallen once more from the meaning I sought to attain, from the meaning I sought to explain.

I am no longer I, yet I have never felt my existence as I now have. When I no longer was, I became everything.

And once more, I am overwhelmed with becoming everything, such that I cannot become anything.

I watch every leaf of my existence as Sylvia Plath watched the figs fall and eventually become rotten.

The passing days awaken me with a question: who are you today? What am I today? I don’t know; best to let it unfold itself.

I watch all that I could have become, yet shy away from in attempts of freeing my soul, in attempts of becoming my essence—but there is no essence other than experience.

And once more, I have shied away from myself, from my life, from becoming the human I was supposedly meant to be. Now I am a god, a lonely god, saturated with divinity, yet empty from experience.

I can become anything; hence, I remain suspended between everything—standing free from it all, even my own essence.