Untitled.

I meant to write a short piece about me, not so much about me, but what matters to me. We could maybe call it: what I am made of. But I've got nothing. It seems undefined. And in the course of those few hours that I waited to write this, a lot happened and I simply lost the thought. In some way though, its not that I lost the thought, but more that after all of this time I can't answer. I cannot pinpoint what matters to me. Some people love music, some people love art, and some people love writing, but for me, maybe because of my lack of memory retention, because of my inability to research or to download, I don't love. I can't say I love, because I can't truly and profoundly love; to love is to know. And I can't say that I know about something, because I don't know about anything at all. I detest the idea that I, sincerely, don't know about anything. I can't tell you about anything. I can't tell you about art, about music, about history, about poetry, about philosophy, because I don't know them. I am blank.

But I don't feel blank; there must be something with in me. It is just not complete, so much to the point that I can conclude, that I don't know anything. I could say I love art, and poetry and philosophy, but how can I, if I don't know them? 

I'd like to go back to writing poetry. I'd like to go back to having those vivid thoughts that I so constantly described with picturing metaphors. But I can't. When I call for such a description, it never comes. I guess, my being, the 'me,' will remain untitled, because it is blank. I am blank, and untitled.