It took me years to figure out how to talk to people, to decide what I wanted to say, what is important, to find the courage and the confidence in my own fears and intentions. I studied Philosophy, alone. I fucked behind closed doors and vomitted out reoccuring thoughts to those that I loved, those that took pity on me, and those that, by ill fortune, loved me too. The world around me constantly reminds me that it only vaguely resembles the one I have in mind. This fact leans on me often with a burdening mass. Reflexively, and through angst, I reach out around me for solid objects and find only other people, each sharing the weight of the world, each scared, anxious, lonely, or neither but naive and weightless. The older I get, the more beautiful this burden becomes when reflected off the innocent faces of my nameless peers. I don't need a god, only a rake to clear a path, and a glimer of hope that someone, someday might find it useful, the path, my words, my life. Because I have all I need and always did, and was always happy, always. I just didn't know it until now.