Autobiographical accounts tend to be dripping with ego, unless you can put the truth of you in it.
You know that feeling when you turn to those whom you are accustomed to getting answers from, and they tell you this time they don’t know, and they are quiet as their eyes look far at something you can’t see or understand. They are busy their actions say. You never realized how busy they are or how much you must waste time or have been a time waster without knowing it.
You want to grab ahold of their lapels, their hems and beg them to tell, to give the anwers of life, you want to writhe and scream and cry, tell them not to be aloof, if thats what it is, tell them to divulge what makes them so calm in the face of it all. Did they too feel so anchorless, so anxious and afraid of doing the wrong thing, so badly that there is no turning back, like a small thing like an unnecessarily extracted tooth by a possibly inept dentist or something bigger than that, or did they feel so restless, wasting time, and feeling so terrible about it and yet unable to not waste time? Did they feel like that too, that everything is just chance and luck and there is a constant possibility that you will fall away into the pit of mortal peril and not be able to climb out?
Did it hurt so much in finding out uncomfortable truths about themselves like how you don’t pay attention enough to people or the things that make them run, because you are too into ideals and big broad gestures to see, too into the world of your head to pay attention to whats going on all around you all the time? You literally cannot see a thing as it is or anyone as they really are. Learning quickly is the only way to go from here, but where is that? Why is it so scary and unknown?