I'm being dragged around by my own lack of individuality,
swayed by the people around me.
Their thoughts. Their opinions.
I cling to their consistency,
even if there isn't anything consistent about them.
My head is empty until I take what isn't mine.
Taking and taking and never owning.
I pick up pieces as I go and stitch myself together.
Is this what it is to be human?
Creating yourself out of the people around you.
Picking and choosing your personality like you would your clothes?
At what point do you become whole?
Do you always have the stitched up scars leaving marks over your mind?
I have a fear, buried deep inside the recesses of my mind, that I do not understand what it means to be human.
That I am an empty shell. That I am false. Corrupt. Damaged, irreparably so.
That I am creating something hideous.
A monster that doesn't know what it is or what it will become.
Not until it's too late.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Sachbücheras the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
