I sit inside my silence, not even awake, maybe, waiting patiently for the cocoon to open, not eager, not afraid. I wait.

You wake up to your fate in pain, eyes burning in a veil of tears, in disbelief.

As you get old you start pondering on the meaning of words like purpose, or love, or fate, or free will, and they haunt you with their reverberating nature, they turn up the dial on your mind until your hair hurts, they tilt your compass.

Who are you, vital statistic made of personal identification numbers, evaluations and degrees, and defined by its body mass index, driving record, and employment history?