I am dopamine hunting,
avoiding the emptiness of sitting in front
of a blank sheet of drawing paper.
That white sheen reflects anxiety.
Will the sketch be any good?
Will any of them ever be?
Who am I fooling?
I never felt this as a kid
while holding a pencil.

I look at my face in the mirror as I shave,
hearing past comments from friends
about my eyes, my mouth,
how one side burn is wider than the other.
This is my personality waking,
claiming to be who I am.
A conglomeration of memories
and faded emotions that are no more
than a tattered, stained sheet
covering the void behind it.

I searched my mind for purpose
when nothing seemed to matter,
but then it struck me
that nothing did matter
except for what took place
in that very moment.
No purpose behind me,
none in front of me,
only in what I did
right in that moment.
I wiped my tears,
spat out the phlegm
and kept walking.