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What. Thats the age old question isn't it? "Whats this?" "Whats that?" "What do you mean?" "What did you say?" What what what what what what what what what what what what what what what what...Always what. Now I ask: What am I?

This is an important question for every person to answer for themselves. But I can't answer now. I don't know what I am any more. I'm not a swordsman, not a swordsmith, not an accountant or a box boy, not a writer, not a son, not a brother, not a friend, not a lover. No. Not now. I am none of those things now. My heart yerns for steel and combat as if I were a warrior. But I am not. No, not that most of all.

My skin burns and my hands ache. I look somewhere, anywhere for a release from my madness, a place of clarity, but none exist. My skin begs to be torn, riped, cast off so that my body might breath but I cannot do this. My heart aches for wide spaces where only my feet can take me and grant me freedom. But my mind...my mind...it wants none of this. It wants nothing more than to escape; to free itself from it's dark prision, from the very fetters that hold my being together.

It hurts all the time now. Everything I do is laced with this pain. Pain of being, pain of failing. Pain caused by those around me, and pain caused by myself. Pain caused by life whose freedom is death. Everything hurts, my body, my mind, my soul, and for what? For this thing that I was cursed with? For this being that I am? But again I ask now, I ask for need, I ask because I must know if I mean to escape this reality, this pain, this existence of mine: What am I?

FAILED