I am nothing, and I will never be anything either. I shapeshift into whoever I latch onto, dreaming myself into supporting roles in their stories. I have dreams and I work tirelessly to avoid their fulfilment. But what are my dreams anyway? Depends who's asking, really. 

I will go through life as I have done, a little steel ball in a pinball machine. No direction, only suffering. "What happened to you?" Nothing did - I live a charmed life. All the hell I live through I created, probably to make myself look more interesting. 

I will live vicariously through constellations of driven, focused people, latching on to create a sense of purpose and then severing myself for the final climax. Ad infinitum. I will talk myself into high expectations and laze, tired and sad, into mediocrity. 

I am the wallflower that deigns to speak. Everyone knows who I am, everyone has met me. Yet I waft away, carried endlessly by this unrelenting stream that I wish would end in a waterfall, my head dashed against rocks. 

Because blood, at least, is poetry.