A self in the multitude.

Impulses, unwanted sensory stimulation. A cold breeze, shirt; too tight. The noise of a distant radio, too loud. Unwelcome thoughts of the now. Unuttered  fears of the future.

A warm spring sun. Gently rolling grass, creating the illusion of a peaceful harbor. A moment of respite

Dueling perspective; hope, despair. Happiness and sorrow. Hope and regrets. Why is it never easy for you, Logan? Always questioning, always searching for something more. A reason for your follies and triumphs. Is there a reason certain things fall perfectly into place for you, while others detonate as if cursed? Or is this merely the byproduct of an overactive imagination?

Wake up and smell the extremely high pollen count that has declared a war on your nasal cavity. You are a self in the world populated by billions of your own kind. The only thing that separates you from them is your actions. No “Chosen one”, no “predestined for greatness”. Just you, your actions, and whether not you can justify them well enough to sleep at night.