The Sum of Parts

Am I collection of experiences and memories?  Is that me?  Thinking about possessing a soul, a type of divine energy never created and resistant to destruction...trust me, I've tried...was almost always a comfort.  I could rely on the fact that this core at the centre of it all was the "real" me...Rhandi.  Yeah, she spells her name with a fucking H too.  It was like I always had a partner in my rowboat to maneuver the falls and take over when I was deflated, depleted and drained.  What if?  What if I am merely a collection of forgotten moments and pain?  Sure, there's been some good stuff in there, but fuck...that's not the shit that builds a person;  Creates an entity with awareness.  Even still...if that be the case and we are all void of some deep, cosmic vigor that compels us to do, do, do...achieve, prosper, grow damn you, GROW!...that's mildly comforting, is it not?  This means in my life that I am limitless.  Limitless possibilities, not necessarily in potential.  I think about the things that make me, me.  I thought I've felt the presence of that energy, that silent witness that is always there and ever stagnant.  Why the fuck would I want that?  That judgemental bitch secretly knowing all the answers and smirking at me smugly from her soap box?  Without her, I am a river of knowledge paving my way through, well...whatever the fuck this is.  If there be not a soul, and a place for it after this mortal coil, then we're pretty fucking lucky to be here regardless...ain't we?  Apart from the fact that why, and how will still remain as repetitive questions in my mind, I can adapt. 

Does this mean then, that at the core of all this nothing, I am a performer who loves music, the arts, endless walks in puppy parks, and three orgasms a day?  That's it?  This is me?  Perhaps why we cling so indeterminately to the notion, nay fallacy, is as a result of the bleakness of what this shit really is.  Sure, we've all had varying experiences but at the meat of it all, we are all identical life-forms of a highly intelligent nature who stumble about trying to feel meaning.  Still, the question remains...why?  how?  What happens when that's determined?  What puzzles will be left?  How could we possibly go on, if we knew it all?

Once, I wanted to be the greatest.  I wanted to be creative.  Beautiful.  Intelligent.  Graceful.  Warm.  Funny.  Compassionate.  Generous. I feel as though I always come up wanting.  Finally, the meat.  It's the meat of nothing however and that...that sucks.  I would like to instruct that shit to get bent.  I feel insecure, or stupid, or worthless, or the antithesis of every word above...and I question.  I question anyway, but it's not normally so dark, dreary, desperate.  Tonight is a night of D's.  Drunkenness, debilitating emotional upheaval, drowning in consolatory tune-age.  Fuck...