The Self composition of one's soul.
Am I walking on mine?
Are the steps that I force myself to take only dragging me backwards?
The reminiscence of my history is haunting my Conscious moments.
Am I allowing myself to become consumed by the things I should by rightly have let go?
If so, what is my justification for it?
Is my I.Q of 138 ever going to get me past this small box of which I dream in?
Is 'life' just one huge allegory, an anagram of what the 'Real' world is to be like when we eventually leave here?
Should I be wearing my heart on my sleeve? Or writing Love on my arms?
TO be or NOT to be something spectacular?
Am I just another face?
Or is there, indeed something magical about me?
I babble on and on, yes, indeed, I do.
And am I a cynic? Ofcourse, I am.
