We are all cataloged. And cross cataloged. Like books in a library. We are men or women or in-betweens, we are Hindus or Christians or Jews. We are doctors or philosophers. We are good or bad. We are petite or fat. Rich or poor. We are atheists or religious. We are insane or intellectual. All tagged and cataloged, into neat little pigeon holes.
And under the tangled strings of all the tags that supposedly define who we are, we lose our real identity.
Can my thoughts break free of my tags? After all, thoughts arise from the body, first shaped by the belief I am born into, honed by experiences of my status, and molded by the books I read and words I hear. However, thoughts also have this strangely ethereal quality that jettison them beyond their roots into yonder, and into impossible realms.
I am and I am not. I am neither man nor woman. I am undefined by riches. Not boxed into a belief, neither am I defined by my body. I am insane and intellectual. I am materialistic and esoteric. I am defined by my mind, by my thoughts. A breaker of tags, I am abstract.
I carry the tag of the untagged.
Yes, we are all tagged. One way or another.
In the catalog of the damned.
