Amnesia

I'm watching Batman. Bruce Wayne got hit in the head and kidnapped to a work camp where he forgot who he was.

I'm here thinking, if I suddenly lost my identity and had to find my way back to myself, would I be the same? What would I learn about myself by reexamining who I am?

I invent loneliness within myself when I stay up late and haunt facebook like stalker philosopher, leaving comments that hopefully make people laugh and think. Who is like me?

In a world where we fight to be individuals so much that being independent and non-conformist has become mainstream, we still search for people like us except in gender, the piece of humanity that fits what is missing within us. In future a teenager may hope to meet someone who will fit that spot enough that the glue of romance and attraction may smooth the rough edges of that connection, however, in the meantime we frantically search for a fragment of mirror that can reflect ourselves back with at least a semblance of care and touch.

I feel as if I am in a room filled with the pieces of shattered mirrors, searching endlessly to find the one that will finish my mind's endless, hormone-slanted puzzle. I kneel on the floor to examine the pieces, to search the images for the one that reflects back, but I am surrounded by too many responding pieces. They all connect deeply, any of them could slot neatly into the shifting jigsaw, but their edges are indistinct like so many dividing amoebae, constantly changing so that none could fill the need. For we are all merely unfinished marble statues, waiting for the sculptor of experience and growth to finish us with his chisel of understanding and hammer of self-discovery.

I stand in frustration and realize that all around me are thousands of other rooms, filled with young teenagers trying to fill their puzzles - but so many have found pieces, perhaps roughly edged, but fitting, that help complete their mind. While I am happy for them, having helped search for those pieces as friends do for their friends, their happiness subliminally mocks me in my drive to find my own missing piece. The reflections and possible matches dance tauntingly in front of my vision, saying, I could be the one that would finish you, if only I needed your puzzle piece too. In an ocean of water with none of it to drink, my fraying mind gasps for air among the crashing waves of loneliness and derision. Oh for a life preserver.

Why only when I disguise my emotions with eloquence do they become true? Is not saying, I am lonely and am treated as just-a-friend by those who truly appreciate me, mean the same thing? Somehow in simplification the point is lost, as in complification - my intention is nebulous, portraying first an emotional poet, and then a pitiful wreck. If your electrons flow on the same diameter wave as mine then come forward and beat back my obfuscated whining with a witty repartee. Perhaps you shall be the one to be cherished as a counterpart, completing the yin and yang cycle.

Blah blah blah, I should play guitar, dye my hair and become emo. Is that worse than being stuck between average and intellectual? How does a Solomon dress? How am I classified? Please, cultural undercurrent, my deep desire is to be classified like a genre. How else shall I know how to live my life, much less fix my profile on facebook.