Rhetorical Narcissism.

We are beings continually haunted by the miscommunication of our hearts and our head. Neurological synapses manage to completely divorce reason and emotion to yield a complete metaphysical disaster of personal dilemma and hesitation. Our priorities become echos and we are forced into a role of maturity that doesn't quite fit as well as we had hoped. These customizing years of ourselves often end in agonizing realizations centered around regret or sheer denial. Depending how far along you are on the path to your perfect-fitting self, the balancing act between these two extremes can make you nauseous. To be perfectly honest I'm at an awkward point in my life. A place that has nothing to do with pubescent abnormality or a dire need for anything intrinsically artificial, but instead I seek an outlet that I'm not sure exists. Perhaps as the mind grows into it's own ego and deciphers the cryptic messages of our subconscious that a part remains untranslated and thus, unattainable. It could be the very explanation as to why our total brain function is enveloped in mystery. It could even be the reason for great and shit art alike and be the carrot to the turtles we've become - slowly walking focused on this insatiable void that seeks fulfillment as time flies by. However, should we even have time to ponder the inconsequential or occupy ourselves with production? Is seeking ever inconsequential even if what is sought has no definite form...and what if the end in no way justifies the means? Of course life is a series of risks...calculated risks if you're the type to always make plans, and furthermore it has no definitive expectation. Life is, afterall, what you make it and whatever standards you hold yourself to are simply articles of choice. My point is that introspection does feel narcissistic in a world decorated by the individualistic mentality and is utterly expected. But expected, perhaps, for all the wrong reasons due to misguidance and indulgence. I feel that somewhere, the outlet that I'm pining over isn't an imaginary rabbit hole to throw my sweet nothings into, but something real. Maybe what I lack in understanding, I can make up for in inquiry.