The Protagonist

I presume we have been given much of an ambition to acquire more of that illusory passion, so that when the world turns old, we bring whatever of what the surroundings stuff our minds with. About that, I am questioning the facts, is it a strategy to bring us happy to that limited-animated-unreal utopia where the only struggles back then are today’s target of what a clear mind seeks? I am questioning the facts that flabbergasted the baby me, is it a coincidence that your astonishing existence is now a thunderstruck of an ordinary day? I am questioning the facts that chose me a protagonist to a story I didn’t necessarily like, is it the writer’s style or I am above the read?

In a world beneath disorder, I presume we have had enough. From the overthinking that caused much of a sadness I hope I forget to the circumstances that caused much panic I hope I omit. It feels odd, but the odd that doesn’t mean new, the odd that perplexes the nerves to the point they entreat to analyze some sort of understanding. It's been simple, and I am not even nostalgic but let’s change plans.

Farewell to the old life that left me alone in the most noisy locations, the specifically most crowded and more importantly, the most irrational. You left me, for another undetermined purpose, which is to think.

I am questioning the facts, is it a part of your policy that a vector breaks through your corrupt agency? As I am deciding to stop roaming inside the cells of my mind, between those endless pathways, to think…and what I decided is to begin again no matter what the world brings.