I Am Made Of References

I feel like the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz or The Wiz or both. I hope you know what I mean because that is as far as my brain gets to accurately describing this feeling. My brain doesn’t seem to produce original material. It seems at some point it decided that recognition of something I enjoy gave me a kind of kinship with the creator that eliminated the need for me to actually create something by myself. I know when I like something. I hold onto it with quotes and pictures and feelings like a child clutches a stuffed animal. Like a robot that only responds when a button is pressed. I want to connect with others but I seem to be only capable of imitating life. I suppose that is how a lot of things come to be, is to start by imitating but it’s awkward nonetheless. If I were better at understanding my feelings I could explain them in less words. And to illustrate my point i’m going to end this with a reference that comforts me.

Sometimes in place of “job” I mentally insert “life”. bKOnkBP


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