Parrots parroting parrots;
It's no wonder why most all of everyone has those long minutes looking in the mirror, wondering what all of this is for. Questioning life as it is to be a redundancy. Whole generations of people living reflexively to the shadows cast onto them by their mothers and fathers, ignorant to even their ignorance in an age of information, walking forward with cement shoes.

What is authentic but a sensation? Processed and sold in an answer in a book or at the bank, at the end of a telegraph from you to God, god, or dog, when you get no reply back you go ahead and blame it on yourself. Put it on your tab of guilt and take it with water three times a day with three hours to spare, sitting in your chair and making shapes out of the stucco on your ceiling, just trying to make out something --- just trying to feel something. Feel something like a child would describe it, innocent to the world, there's a drug for it and no one wants to prescribe it.

Authenticity is a big word for is. It's been being since being has been. When you shed your need to search for yourself, you have found yourself. 
Only then you laugh at the joke that is humanity. In sincerity, you realize with a smile on your face and tears in your eyes that the question of 'how' has been answered, and by the time you can answer the question of 'why' it's already too late. with brittle bones you exhale the last time, and immolate. You burn blue all alone but warm your earthbound family with whispers of your answer that they can't hear anymore.
You love them, you shrug it off and join the stardust back where you were born. See you soon.

and then you wake up.