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I feel like my body is slowly rotting. It is melting away, sizzling under the heat of the bright, hot rays of the sun. My form is decaying along with whatever is supposed to be left of me, left of my personality. I am not an individual. I am a collective being, each singular thought formulated no more than a clone of what the outside world imprints on me, my mind. I am nothing but a computer. I don’t know who I am, and if there really is a me. Life devoid of thought is not a life worth living, yet no matter how many times I say it, believe it, I still am the way I am. My existence is unfathomably dull, and there is not a thing about me to take interest in. Nor is there a thing I myself take interest in myself. My thoughts are my own, but are they really? Is anything I think of my own thought? Is it truly of my own understanding? Am I the person I believe I am? Or am I a mindless computer borrowing the thoughts of others, rebranding them and rephrasing them as my own? Are my interests truly what I’m interested in? Or are they what I want to be interested in? Am I really even my own individual or am I just a copy of the environment around me? Does anything I think make sense? Or do I want it to make sense? My thoughts are not my own. No matter how much I long to have my own thoughts, my own personality, my own philosophy, in the end, I am the same as everything else around me. My existence is nothing special. I do not have a deep level of understanding, awareness, or even consciousness. Not even my words are my own, nor the way I tell them. Everything about me is borrowed from somewhere else. Who am I? My physical form does not define who I am. Nor do my thoughts, and what I think I know about myself. What do I know about myself? What will I allow myself to know about myself, that isn’t unfavourable? Am I only viewing myself in the way I want to view myself? Is my perception of reality so warped that even I myself am not sure of my true thoughts and intentions? Whether or not they are my own, and whether or not I am worthy of existence. Nothing about me is unique, neither my thoughts nor my actions. I am doomed for a life of idle simplicity