If Rocks contemplated:
Who am I? Why am
I here? Why am I me? What have I become?
Who have I become in the process of attempting to be what I want to be? Am I
what I think I am? Or am I what I think the world thinks of me? How much of me is purely trying to make
others happy? Or worse yet, simply an attempt to find someplace safe to hide
until I’m brave enough to admit who I am? How much of me is just thought, and
I’m really just a series of physical responses to my environment? Am I nothing
more than a pantomime of what I dream is unique, and in reality a circuit that
is programmed to respond in a predictable manner? Could I be something specifically unique, as
maybe an improvement? An example to be emulated? Or something considerably less
and forgettable? Perhaps I’m part of a
mighty bigness I can’t see? Or just the remains from past glories. What if I were somewhere else, would I see
more clearly than I do now? Most disturbing for me is
What now?
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