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Blow, March wind

Blow, and teach me of my insignificance
A small and resisting thing
Blow down all of my ego
For in its absence the other half of my brain returns

Oh, I am weary
But I hope that the wind and the birds around me now don't care about the things others think are so important
Weary and resisting thing that I am
I need to know that I am insignicant, and the other things are unsignicant
A hundred thousand tiny details to give me a hundred thousand tiny little pains that add up to one big pain
Others think these little pains are a part of science
Or do they, or do they even care
Hell, what do I know
I am not really a scientist, but I did sort of think that we based decisions in empiricism not
A hundred thousand tiny little details
I swear these little details are making me stupider

No, that is not quite what is bothering me
I feel sort of hunted and sort of cut down
I feel that a random blighted mind focuses malicious intent on me, then forgets about me for a few weeks,
Then remembers me again and focuses in again
And finds out everything I do wrong and points it out as unsparingly as possible
And I do not deny that I do make so many mistakes

I am in such unfocused, unrequited, unsatisfied dilemma.


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