Perspectives from concrete walls and tiled floors.

It’s funny because my perspective on everything has been skewed. My identity’s transitive; in philosophy class, they say human identity can be the soul or physicality, but the one right here, caged by flesh concrete and supported by a foundation of cheap peeling tile, faded altogether as my hair just grows shorter and limbs gradually diminish their radii to fulfill some insatiable quota in the eye of some ominously faceless beholder. Look at me now, but I won’t make eye contact– I’m an embarrassment, weren’t you aware? A soulless cluster of regenerating particles; a singular red backpack in a sea of twenty five thousand bookbags, and yet being as generic as the beholder itself is as gratified as my makeshift soul can ever attempt to be.


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