The Book of the Dead.

Life just feels like quiet chaos on the
good days, and on the bad days it just feels absurd.
I am like this tiny marble just sliding down endless roadways and pathways of self discovery or self destruction.
I am like a paperclip on a paper airplane still trying to fly when I am too weigh down.

It's like someone ordered one of everything on a menu, and I am that order.
It's like I don't know myself and can't connect with life. I can't seem to find my own reason for being, or my tribe.
And when I do find something I enjoy or that brings a smile to my face, I somehow feel guilty for it, or worried that I will fall right back down again into the same bad habits or old routines that I am trying to get away from.

I can't enjoy enjoyment, smiling seems to come with a drop of poison and a serious case of fatigue.

And I know I can't control what others say or do, or what they don't say or don't do.
Still knowing that, I have trouble with the word "No" either them saying no for whatever reason, or me not putting my foot down,
and saying no when things get too overwhelming.

I also have a hard time accepting life on life's terms, I mean I know I am not the center of the universe, but I am not the invisible man either.

Still I am the one always being considerate of others or compromising, and I end up sacrificing myself little pieces at a time, until I don't know who I am anymore.
Always doing what makes sense to my corner of this world, instead of thinking of how I fit into that plan first.

But I never feel like I fit anywhere, I am just here. I feel like some odd object you find and throw in a junk drawer when you can't figure out what it goes to.