One Hundred Million Years Ago A Hero Crossed The Land

I want to be a character
In a some fiction I write
So I feel that I have authorship
Over my own life
Build myself into concept
To have some control
But subconscious commands me
And so does my soul
What is truly my nature?
I try to resist
Hasty thoughts that I make up
Make me feel sick
Give my ego a premise
Then try to commit
Still can’t run away
From the fact I exist

Sure sometimes it is nice
To be tangible and true
But self-recognition
Is hard to construe
To be content in yourself
Well it's difficult to do
Some days you’d rather be me
Some days I’d rather be you

And maybe in some ways
That’s why it’s hard to empathize
You're nothing more than character
In someone else’s life
To them you live as the fiction
That you would like to be
But without the control
Over how you’re perceived
You may feel minimized
Or maybe misunderstood
Maybe idealized
Whilst undeserving of that love
So then discard the opinion
As they don't really know you
Just to face the facts
You don’t know yourself too

Sure sometimes it is nice
To feel tangible and true
But self-recognition
Is hard to construe
To be content in yourself
Well it sure is hard to do
Some days you’d rather be me
Some days I’d rather be you