How strange it is to be anything at all

I lost myself somewhere back in Texas, and I’m not sure where my heart belongs. It feels more like an empty crevasse most days, the edges cracked and worn thin like the hollow echo of a bleating lamb. My insignificance is vast and profound; I am comfortable accepting the mediocrity that defines my reality. It is the call for stagnancy that grows an itch, festers an open sore from the pressure of a limb left to waste. If only my hopes were more attainable, something reasonable within the relative confines of my being, because this life is uncomfortable as it stands and I’m not sure how much longer I can take. Wouldn’t it be silly to depart this earth having left nothing for yourself, to speak for the dreams you held and the hope you fostered long after you are gone? Far too few bother to leave a legacy, whatever that may be, and the hardest questions are the ones that are rarely asked.

But my love, it flourishes. All I have ever wanted to be was a good person. And the day my spirit slips away, I wish for just one person to smile, having known my truth.