Who am I? Wouldn’t you like to know?
So would I.
I’ve never known.
All I’ve known is tendrils that wind and confuse, permeating space with authenticity that threatens disbelievers to succumb to the unnatural.
It’s sickening and gorgeous.
I wish I knew how to love others. But how can I?
I don’t know how to love myself. I don’t even know if it’s possible.
Sensations are ever prevalent, surfacing and bubbling at every angle, every crevice. I hear them rumble. Yet, I feel none of them.
I fill everywhere and nowhere with myself, regretting leaving anything untouched, unfiltered. Once dampened, I expect to realize something from it all, something that never comes.
But I shall continue to frost wherever I may, to experience it all.
Can sentience alone be enough?
I would like to know.