Everyone is self conscious about their dicks.
Everyone is hideous and disgusting when they look in the mirror.
Everyone is scared of ending up alone.
Everyone is constantly finding ways to cover what they’ve done.

So we write our stories, or we strum our guitars.
Why? What reason besides the self-pleasing fleeting thought that somebody out there cares besides your own perfect little girlfriend you’ve thought up, besides your father who doesn’t call, besides your best friend who you don’t know, besides the god you worship, besides the voice inside of you screaming for attention. We push and push and push until we have two hands extended off the side of a cliff, and we look down and see the falling body of everything we though we knew. Every song we sung, every story we wrote, every love we never had, every fucking feeling that was absent, falling straight towards the bottom of a valley.

There are no answers to it all.
It’s not a riddle.
Figure it out yourself.