Projectiled Souls

You and me—well: all—such projectile souls
like light beams across stitched fields and fields
of people. From where does that dripping and dropping of
heavy ink get pushed about the blankness of strife and struggle
and in-general what it is to be moving about?—and here protruding out
is a character. And that thing—what I'm saying is—is that thing,
that character, that bubbling out of the skin and seeing from your brain
—well: is that the personality, or is that you, or are you the
personality; when does personality become you,
and are you still a personality if you are only you,
or do you get to be many and can you survive?—I feel like, hmm:
some people get to choose and I'm confused