This piece doesn’t have an intent.
It doesn’t have a movie reflection.
It doesn’t sound like anything.

This isn’t for sense-making.

It’s just a spilling out.

Who are you?
What can you do?
Why do you get bored?
What does it mean when you say “passion”?
Why do you feel scared?
The risk you took, was it even a risk?
Who approves?
Are you numb or dumb?

Do you even want this, or do you just want to be seen wanting it?

Is this discomfort growth, or just another excuse?
Do you think too much? Or not enough?
When did everything become content?
Does anyone read to understand, or just to react?
Where do ideas go when they’re suffocated by speed?
Why is honesty uncomfortable?
What is the point of saying anything, if words have stopped meaning?
Is there a way to write without explaining yourself?

Does everyone feel disappointed, or just those who pay attention?

Are your dreams yours, or did you inherit them?

If you had no audience, would you still make things?

Unanswered.

Unfiltered.