Sometimes, when the whole world around me is lost in a frenzied pandemonium, I take respite in being a spectator. Look how you all run: helter-skelter, naivety shrouded by a ruthless day’s toil dripping down your brow. You strive long and hard, to make a living, to make a home, to make a life. You know not when to stop, disillusioned by an indefinite purpose you think you understand. That, the image of people caught betwixt and between this mayhem, is what elicits my recurrent epiphany.

I do not want to be a postal address, a designation, a phone number.

I do not want to be a bank account, a social security number, a driver’s license.

I do not want to be curbed by such precision, no.

I want to be like that jab of nostalgia you breathe in, the one prompted by a puff of peppermint cigarette on a lonely Sunday afternoon that takes you back to a place you know you can revisit in memories alone. I want to be the like that surge of arcane, startling longing that grips your chest as you watch the trees go by from your rail window- present all the while but inexplicably elusive. I want to be like the placation of the eerie familiarity of a complete stranger.

I do not want to be a someone. No.

I’d much rather be no one.   


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