I am nothing and maybe everything

I am forced to reflect upon my self the world constantly begging the question who are you? And the question gets louder and louder and nobody seems to know
Maybe the human existence is too great to limit to one format of identity
That might explain why I talk to myself, and why thoughts and feelings change and blur and over turn on each other
Maybe we are more than our human bones can contain
And that's why no one sleeps at night
I will like every other tired soul go the rest of my life trying to answer the question
And it never fails to frustrate rather than leave hints
I think that's beautiful
I think it's crazy
But so beautiful
The geometrically complex sides of a soul are seemingly endless
The parts of me that lowly worship the quiet and empty spaces collide with other pieces that stoically beleive in the good of people and the color yellow and the parts that likes the burn of alcohol and sadism and the parts that chase the sound of music and animals and the countless pieces I have yet to see for myself

It would take an eternity to sit and learn every piece of someone's soul as it would with your own
I look down at my own hands knowing that I am as large and vastly beautiful and everlasting as the universe around me, above me, and inside me. I then don't feel so minuscule