THE BLACKNESS OF BLACKNESS
The blackness of blackness.
The essence of the self.
I’m not quite sure my self has an essence anymore.
Some people, they have music
It is something that they know will always be a part of them
Even when they aren’t here anymore
Some people have words, or paint or hammers and nails
I don’t have music or words or hammers and nails
My self is lacking an essence
I’m missing a blackness of my blackness
If I don’t have blackness, do I really exist?
Who am I, if I have no essence?
Am I simply an empty shell, waiting to find an essence to fill it?
Am I really anyone
Without blackness?
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