Foggy

I sit in a fog that is entirely my own. Unknown to the world and unknown to me, this fog is the truth and it will not set me free. I am a wanderer, true, and I wander to and fro, but finding no path can only last for so long.
Physical illness and malaise develops into mental illness and malaise, the sicker I feel the sadder I am, and there's no answer except to wait patiently for the seas to swell, then calm, then recede into the darkness.
I am not haunting, I am not mysterious, I am simple and easily defeated. My victories are small, and meaningless in the grand scheme of things. I feel stifled and uncreative, and I know what you are going to say. This is why I don't talk about it, because I always know what you are going to say, and it never helps, because I know you're right. But being right isn't enough. Sometimes you have to be wrong. I don't know what it means, I don't know what I mean, I just know it means something, because it means something to me.
Listen to me whine! I prattle on about my nature, when I can never understand it, no one can understand anything. All is illusion, right? There is no reality, only perception, and perception will be different for each person.Even science, the practice of facts, can never truly be proven. If human knowledge ever expands to the point that we can understand the universe, then we will no longer be able to be classified as humans. There's a paradox I can sink my teeth into. Humans will never understand the universe because when they do, they will cease to be human.
A couple years ago, a girl stole (not actually stole, we swapped books, I sent hers back, she didn't send mine, so yeah, stole) my copy of There are two errors in the the title of this book. I miss it every day. It's a great book. The title itself is a paradox. And besides,who shaves the barber?