I am invisible, at times, a shadow of what I could be. I move and you will not see me, a blurry face that makes no impression, a figure that could be anyone’s. I am less than everyman, for he has a voice, somewhere: I am that anonymous one who never had any quotes attributed to him, the masses distilled into one form, which is mindlessly cheering at some mass-produced event somewhere. And yet, there was always hope in me. That I could make of nothing something — not that I started with so little, but that I had made of it such waste, the potential squandered in a puddle of nebulous philosophies. One day, you may see me, when I have overcome myself, when I regain what I had before the innocence was lost, and shine like the child of God that I was meant to be. But whatever may be, let it never be said that I let it all run its course without that I tried. That I went without deciding to chart into the waters of a dream. Life seems to run out before one has finished tasting: thus any taste, let me savor.
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