For years now I have been searching, looking for me, always waiting, waiting for a life to begin.
Years as seconds pass me by, endless numbers, seconds in time pouring like great rains from heavens above, falling dead lost upon the pavement floor beneath my feet, soaking into crowds that pass me by. As I wander through the streets of people, as but a shadow of time, my face merges in with the crowd, becomes lost, just another unseen face, just another number. Yet as these people pass me by, weave in and out before me, cross the path of the unseen, the shadow of the night, I wonder how it is they fall so well into normality, how they have become real people, and I still remain a shadow.
I am waiting, each and every day for my life to begin, I go through the motions of living, but I am living the life of the dead, in the land of the living. My voice lays unheard in the melody of life, is out of tune and sinks fast to the cutting room floor, to remain for all eternity, discarded, forgotten. Though I walk through the crowds of the valley of life, I am lost in the shadows of eternal emptiness, the long drawn out silence of the nothingness that consumes me.
As my eyes search the crowds, faces all unique, conversations worth having, thoughts with point, I am overwhelmed by the pointlessness of my own existence, unseen, unheard, I shuffle among the normals, the people who are, who know who they are, from where they came and to where they go. I float in and out, drift among them, a shadow in the vast hum drum of every day living, still waiting for my life to begin, my chance to fall, my chance to shine, not as a shadow, but as me, the who and what I am.
Waiting, waiting always waiting, going through the motions of the normals with the shape of a shadow, fitting my part to the music, the melody of that time that place. I go through the actions of living, without ever-living, I breath without breathing, see without seeing, hear without hearing and feel without feeling, I am but a shadow of today, an echo of yesterday and a mist on the sands of tomorrow.
As I wander through the crowds, I am lost in thoughts of nothing, slipping like sands through the hands of the known, through the hands of those with purpose, those with meaning, still waiting for a life to begin. For so long have I been waiting, that I have forgotten now what it is I wait for, so at the bus stop of life I wait for the train that will finally come along and pick me up. I search in the dust in the darkness of yesterday for the shape of tomorrow, the purpose of today, yet all I find are grains of untruth, masks of the forgotten and gone. Always on the outside looking in. If I scream in these crowds with in which I walk, will I be heard? or will my voice once more fall dead, silent as night, lost once more on the cutting room floor?
As I float in and out of you, around and with in you, am I seen? Am I really seen? Do you see me, behind the mask? The shadow, the nothing, the void I have become? As I sit through interview after interview, I wonder if they too see what I see? See behind the mask I wear that day, to the nothingness of me? That void unfilled black-hole, that blot in time? Can there eyes pearce the armour of me? The shape that I wear to hide the cruel harsh reality of the nothing that lays beneath? The truth of who I am?
Different people, different shapes, different styles, different ways, different thoughts all wash over me, reflect back my own emptiness, my own definition.
If I was an entry in a dictionary would there really be words that describe me? or would that space, as me, be left blank, unknown, nothing but a shadow?
Time and time again I tell myself I am part of this program of life, but in reality I am not, I am like a blip in the program, a bug, a part of the code that is broken, unstarted and unfinished, just random, pointless variables, lines of code that prehaps had a meaning originally, but where never completed nor really begun.
I hide my shape with a blanket, a mask of normality, like clay I form shape to mask shadow, to create anything but the harsh reality of the nothing that lays underneath. For years I have defined my self not by life itself, but by the reality of what I do.

The eternal cliché, lost in the land of perpetually flowering cliché, I pile metaphor upon metaphor, hide with in my words, words of the unseen, of the unknown. I cloth myself by day in the masks and the shapes of the seen, I borrow and steal a life, moving from place to place, shape to shape, person to person, I am what I am, defined only by that point in time in which I stand, with out which I am naked, alone, lost and unseen. It’s easy for a shadow to take shape, to steal a life with in a life, for we have no substance, we have no reality other than the reality of that time and place, we have no purpose, other than the purpose of the act, of hiding the shadow that lays beneath form the eyes of the normals.
Years and years have I defined myself by my work, always trying to be more, always pushing and driving myself, by what I do, setting the limits, building the walls, all in the vain hope of finally being accepted as something, yet always, over looked, seen but unseen, known as someone who works hard, trys hard, but achieves little. Always searching for some for of recognition, some form of something, crumbs from the table that so eagily would I grab and feast upon, just for some form of fitting in, some form of normaility.
How many times have a struggled and strived for a moment, for that moment to pass, leaving nothing but more emptiness to add to the void of the nothing, to prolong the waiting for that time to come, that time I long since forgot.
I am a house with no doors, no windows, no walls or roof, not even brick, just a hollow a void. I am the shadow that lives on the outside, always looking in, knocking unheard upon the door, seeking refuge in the night. I dwell amongst you with no purpose or meaning, with no definition, even the knowledge that I gained is worthless, empty forgotten.
I yearn for the hills and the freedom, I long for escape from this plight, I long to belong, I long to accept me, yet I can not, for I am a forgotten fragment of something else, a part this lacks the whole, a shadow born of shadows, raised in shadows, a meaning with no purpose.
How do I even know if what I think is real, or just a shape of a hope or a dream, of a way to begin to live? How do I know if the reality of what lays beneath is really a reality, or just a twisted thought of another time another place,one more string of hope to grasp, only to find it whisked away and once more lost, naked alone, exposed left standing for nothing.
The lines are blurred around me, the colour fades from with in, I flicker like a candle in the light, lost in the darkness of my own shadow, a person that will never be. Darkness befalls, endless miles of isolation, though I pass through the light of the land of the living, I dwell in the land of the gone, in the ghosts of yesterday. Silent tears fall from my eyes, bitter salty, they fall upon my lips and wash away unheard, unseen, unknown into the crowds that pass me by as I walk.
Waiting always waiting for a life to begin, a life that passes me by.
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