bohemian soul, cosmopolitan existence 

I am enervated with feelings of under appreciation, invisibility and irrelevancy.

That my mere existence is one of sheer inconvenience; one akin to cancer or a depraved parasite. Of feeling like there’s nothing for me here. That there never really was and that I am not worthy of much more.

I’m tired of looking for reasons to hold on but only finding cases against such actions.


That my presence in this realm is an error. One that the higher-ups seem not to have noticed nor cared. As if the unseen pages of my story and purpose remain to be written. Or perhaps such pieces had been composed with the intention of being performed continents away. Maybe even centuries ago; seemingly the protagonist was missing in action.

I am not looking for recognition but simple acceptance.

That who I am at my core is not vile nor undeserving but what I’ve felt all along, the exact opposite of such misery.



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