In everything I try, I feel like a shallow representation of someone else. I don't want to show my despair to others because they'll act like I'm what I'm despairing for is so small and insignificant. Compared to others, I know how I envy not their knowledge, I envy the experience they had. I don't even think that I envy, singularly, their experience. I envy rhythms I can't cross. I find lucidity in poetry, I'm trapped with a soul. A soul is a number. A soul is the word. A soul has no color, but it's the result of consciousness being turned on itself by fear and punishment such that it punishes itself and the body is made to desire its reprisal. I have a body of emotions, just glass cracked in the wall. Two people look the same and two colors look the same. I don't want a name, it's terrifying to watch them drag you out and name you.