I am not a writer.
I am a thinker.
my mind is a pencil, and my thoughts are the paper.
I write not for others, but myself as a whole.
as for me, my thoughts are nothing but crucial.
but for you, my thoughts mean nothing at all.
who am I, and why does awareness exist.
is it for our purpose, to make us resist.
to make us feel fearful, and shocked to our bones.
when we realize, the fact is, we all have no home.
no place to return to, when all's said and done.
just labels on paper, to show us reason.
but when all's said and done,
and we all move on,
those pieces of paper,
will cease to live on.