Shit from my documents

The following is not meant to be read.

Life is pretty much the same around here, it still rotates like clockwork. I heard voices some time ago, thought they addressed me. Soon I realized that very few of the voices you hear are meant for you, that life will make you think you’re important only to break you, and lay you down on a bed of roses and call you great, but deep down you will know that you are nothing but mud.

The inconceivable occurs when we forget who we are, when the greatness of the problem is so overwhelming that we realize that we can do nothing about it and therefore we are not changing agents in our world, but rather bystanders waiting to be dealt a hand. Our identities are therefore lost; who are we but innocent hearts stuck in the passage of time?