How am I feeling, my therapist asks, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. The room is devoid of any color or life, surrounded by a shroud of darkness only with a small glint of light coming from the lamp beside me. The monotony of the room drains me of all energy and I find myself in a separate state of mind. Disconnected. As if I am some ruthless ruler over my less fortunate self. Or am I the victim, of the other side of myself? No one knows. Least of all me. Part of me wishes I could simply live my life at least knowing what is wrong with me. Unfortunately, it escapes me, and I am left lost. Who am I? What’s wrong with me? Will I ever know? Perhaps I’m imagining all of it. However, wouldn’t that be a problem within itself? Who cares. As the inner ramblings of my mind continue, time marches on. The world continues. As I am stuck. In the same cycle I’ve always been in. Routine after routine. Until someone messes it up. Then we begin again. How am I feeling? I am asked the same questions with ever changing answers, led on a wild goose chase with an uncertain promise of normality I’ll never attain. What’s the point? To feel better? What’s more important? My feelings? Or my success? The answer never changes. It was never about me and it never will be. We’ll never be sure if the reality we live is merely a facade because we fail to realize our importance. Are we important? Is it really we? Or me? Am “I” an amalgamation of the “we” that resides within my mind? Perhaps it is so. But it’s not like I really care anyways.