Sometimes I wonder if I'm supposed to be a counselor. I give out so much advice and listen to so much adolescent confusion, maybe I should try to equip myself better via a psychology degree.
Maybe not. Maybe I should just get more sleep.
But I am overflowing with other people's words and problems. It's hard to tell just where the brim is. Sometimes other people's problems spill over the dividers into my own issues. Other times, I see reflections of my own past months (weeks, days, hours) in my friends' presents. I hardly know what perspective I'm seeing from. Maybe every life is the same one, recycled over and over again, but seen from slightly different angles, overlapping in impossible ways but collaging into one unified (if confusing) piece of truth, like a cubist painting that the mind cannot quite resolve but must simply accept.
And maybe not.